Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, pre-tuna melt, Pre-Relationship, Alternate Universe - Slight Canon Divergence, Inspired by a Jimmy Buffett Song, unironically, Getting Together, Yearning, Hurricane Jane, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, 2016 CCM Shoot, hurricane season, Forced Proximity, so much yearning, Ilya's best English phrase is I Love You

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-17 Completed: 2026-02-26 Words: 32,431 Chapters: 4/4

trying to reason with hurricane season

Summary

Two days.

Shane and Rozanov filming together, surrounded by the CCM filming and design team, none of them aware that their star rivals were secretly fucking every chance they could. That every game the world saw them go head-to-head in was only foreplay, leading to apartments and hotel rooms. That the heated rivalry between them was inching further and further away from rivalry, and toward something entirely different.

Two days in sunny, perfect Florida.

Or, a joint CCM shoot set in sunny, perfect Florida gets derailed by a natural disaster, and Shane and Ilya are forced to spend actual time together, forced to imagine a future. They find that it’s quite impossible to reason with hurricane season, but that the effects are better than they could have hoped for.

Notes

Welcome to my very long love letter to my favorite Jimmy Buffett song, Trying to Reason with Hurricane Season. These poor boys make their way into every single song I listen too, somehow. This was intended to be a one shot, but my doc is now at 20K words and I need to break it up a little bit for flow.

It is also a what-if story, where I explore the (my) reality that these dudes just needed to be stuck together for more than two hours and they would have been together a whole lot sooner.

I'm about halfway done, but I figured I'd release part 1 so that I'd stop trying to fix it and actually finish the rest. Enjoy this super raw and un-beta'd natural disaster story, everyone! - Queenie :)

Chapter 1: squalls out on the gulf stream

Chapter Notes

September 10, 2015 - 5:45 PM

Lily: you think ccm shoot will be canceled?

Shane: Why would it get canceled?

Lily: the storm????

Lily: do you watch the news????

Lily: hollander????

Lily: hello????

Shane: Just saw it. They’re saying it’s too early to tell where the storm is headed.

Shane: Probably going to fuck Jamaica but then there’s no telling where it’ll go next.

Shane: Let me know if you hear anything.

Lily: (tongue out emoji)

September 12, 2015 – 9:37 AM

Shane landed in West Palm Beach, Florida just after 9:30 to cloudless skies and the bright Florida sun. No sign of the storm currently churning in the Caribbean. The meteorologists said that the weather had mellowed out and was at a tropical depression level, expected to pass cleanly over the Bahamas and then turn out to the North Atlantic Ocean, bypassing South Florida entirely.

Shane knew nothing about hurricanes, so he trusted the meteorologists when they said Florida wouldn’t get anything, but he was a little nervous at the near-empty plane. It could also be the fact that it’d left Montreal around 4AM.

There was really no cause for Shane to be concerned about this commercial shoot for CCM. At all. No storm coming to wreck South Florida like his mother was convinced would happen, no travel delays, no weirdness with the shoot team. No concern, even, about his fellow athlete filming with them, Ilya Rozanov.

No stress, no anxiety. No concern. At all.

Shane was in fact very stressed and very anxious about the upcoming trip. This was different than their normal CCM ads, of which they were both ambassadors of. They usually shot at separate locations and different times. This was the first time since before their rookie season that they were going to the same spot to film an ad.

CCM cited their rookie ad, playing up the rivalry, and hoping that the shoot would bring even more attention to their brand so many years later.

It would be way different than their normal hookups. They would have a more ambiguous and open-ended ability to see each other, without the restriction of flights and games to pigeonhole themselves in. No early flight for Shane to use as an excuse to avoid the embarrassment of being kicked out of a hotel room, no party for Rozanov to flee to after getting his fix.

Two days.

Shane and Rozanov filming together, surrounded by the CCM filming and design team, none of them aware that their star rivals were secretly fucking every chance they could. That every game the world saw them go head-to-head in was only foreplay, leading to apartments and hotel rooms. That the heated rivalry between them was inching further and further away from rivalry, and toward something entirely different.

Two days in sunny, perfect Florida.

September 12, 2015 – 12:15 PM

The property was nice, Shane had to admit it. The CCM team had done a great job at finding this location. It wasn’t the built-up, uber-fancy beachfront resort he’d been picturing in his head. It was a small plot of land, a 4-story hotel building at the back, and a pathway leading to the beach dotted with little bungalows. It was idyllic.

Shane let an attendant take his suitcase as he walked along the gravel path, hearing seagulls squawk and a light breeze whistle through the palms. Shane had a drop of sweat beading down his back, but he didn’t care. He’d have to change out of his heavy airport clothes, though.

“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Hollander,” The bellboy (Brendan, according to the nametag) said, gesturing to one of the rooms, “We have you and the other player mirrored in our two beach-view rooms.” Brendan led him across the gravel path where it fanned out into sand, to one of two identical bungalows.

Shane wasn’t sure he could call it a bungalow, it was more like a shack based on the size, but it was charming, and he loved it. The wooden slats were painted in (faded) pink on the outside of his bungalow, and looking back at the path, he could see Rozanov’s was teal.

Brendan unlocked the front door and moved to roll the suitcase inside. Giving him a, call up to the desk if you need anything! he left Shane alone on the porch.

Shane loved the decorative rope wrapped around the porch, the hammock strung up in the front, and the depiction of a fish made of sea glass right next to the red door.

Inside was just as charming as the outside. There was a set of sliding glass doors covered with sheer curtains, and next to those a king-sized bed. Shane could still hear the seagulls inside. He’d brought his earplugs and face mask, but thought he’d go without them tonight to get the full effect of his surroundings. Shane bypassed the small bathroom and went to open the curtains, flooding the tiny space with light.

He could see the ocean from his room, right out his windows. Between was about 20 meters of space, sparse with palm trees, an area with beach loungers, and a small grassy clearing with charming little sailboats on rolling dollies. There was even a mini beach bar.

Shane changed into athletic shorts and a shirt. He was still rubbing sunscreen into his face when he walked out the sliding glass door, heading to the beach to go see the views. He had on a hat and sunglasses, and unbranded shirts, hoping to avoid whichever tourists were at the hotel. There were a handful of people scattered at the bar, and more in the ocean or on loungers, but altogether it wasn’t too crowded.

He let his shoulders drop from his ears, a touch. The tension that followed him on every travel day was melting away with every breath of the humid air.

He made his way down the path and then through the half-sand, half-grass surface between beach and property. Surveying the ocean, Shane couldn’t see a hint of any storm in the distance. He knew it was there, but the sea was calm and there was only a hint of a breeze. No trace, so far.

He glanced at his watch to check how long he had until he was due to meet the film crew and Rozanov for their meeting. 10 minutes. Shane turned away from the ocean and started to make his way to the main hotel building to find the conference room.

He caught a glance of someone laying in a hammock on his way out, someone he had missed while beelining to the ocean. The face was hidden but there was a strong, tanned forearm hanging out, a beer nestled in the sand within reach, and he thought maybe- Ilya Rozanov.

Shane felt his heart jump to his throat as he tiptoed closer to see if Rozanov was awake or not. Sure enough, his face was completely relaxed, his jaw and forehead soft in a way that Shane had never seen it before, and he was pretty sure those eyes were closed behind dark Ray Bans. He wanted to peer inside that brain and see what was going on during sleep. What was he dreaming about?

There was a sheen of sweat in the dip of Rozanov’s strong throat where it met his collarbone, and Shane swallowed. He had the completely irrational thought of bending down to lick a stripe up that smooth skin but shook his head. They were out in public.

Shane looked at his watch, back at Rozanov, then back at his watch. Should he? What was the protocol for helping his hockey rival who fucked him every time they played in the same city?

“Hey.” He said, deciding to rouse Rozanov from his sleep. He didn’t get a response.

“Hey!” He said it louder.

“Rozanov.” It would be funny to let his rival be late to their meeting, but Shane was greedy for even the smallest interaction between the two of them. He was helpless, really. But Rozanov was dead to the world, that strong jawline still unclenched and lips slightly parted, and they were going to be late.

“Hey, asshole!” Shane gave a tug at the edge of the hammock closest to him, trying to rouse Rozanov from his sleep.

He succeeded, the Russian bolting up in alarm with an “Oy!” He pushed his sunglasses up into those golden curls and looked at Shane. “Ah, Hollander! Look who has finally arrived.” Ilya’s smile was blinding as they made eye contact. His hair was a mess of curls as it hung around his face, slightly matted at the back and sides from being pressed against the walls of a hammock.

“Hey,” Shane said stupidly. And then when his brain finished loading, “How long have you been here?”

“Very long time, yes. I left Moscow and came straight here instead of going to Boston first. Morning of yesterday.” Ilya leaned back into the hammock with an obnoxious yawn and reached for his beer in the sand, taking a swig.

“What are you doing? We have a meeting.”

“My flight was long but uneventful, Hollander, thank you for asking. And how are you?”

Shane felt his cheeks go red. “Sorry. I’m good. Just got in.” This was maybe the most awkward he’d ever been in his life around Rozanov since their first joint CCM shoot years ago. Apparently, he didn’t know how to act around this man without the cover of a hotel room and hockey game.

 “Why do you look like you will go workout? We are at the beach, yes?”

“It’s hot out,” Shane rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to wear pants and I don’t have anything less warm.”

Surveying Rozanov, Shane could see bare feet tucked into the end of the hammock, long, white linen pants encasing strong thighs, a matching short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned at his navel. Shane’s eyes traversed across tan skin dotted with moles Shane had kissed many, many times, the smooth expanse of his pecs (dusky nipples unfortunately hidden), and all the way to the jaw where he could see a mouth open in a cocky smirk and eyes narrowed directly at him-  

“Is there something you like to see?” Rozanov drawled, his accent thick, shamelessly stretching his arms up over his head and flexing those impressive muscles. Shane felt his cheeks burn as he scoffed and looked away.

“Fuck you, asshole. That’s not even how we say it.”

“Later,” Rozanov shot back. Shane walked right into that one. He also whipped around to see if anyone was within earshot.

“Do not worry,” He taunted Shane. “These Florida people are already drunk. And they do not care about hockey here.”

He was right, and there probably were very few, if any, hockey fans on the east coast, an hour and a half outside of Miami. This wasn’t New England or Canada. But Shane was still Shane Hollander, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax around Rozanov in a public place.

He rolled his eyes and started up the path, leaving the Russian still lounging in that hammock.

“Wait- wait. Hollander. Wait!” Shane could hear him struggling to stand up from the hammock and he laughed to himself. Then the slap of sandals as Rozanov finally caught up, striding next to him.

Rozanov took another pull of his beer as they walked to the main building, long fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Shane scoffed. It was barely noon.

“I love this state, did you know? So much less uptight than Boston.” Shane felt the side eye. “Or Canada. Less boring, yes? No one cares if I drink at noon. It feels like time for drinking, anyways, because I am still on Moscow time.” Shane rolled his eyes but let it be.

He let Rozanov’s longer legs eat up the distance faster than him so that they wouldn’t be seen close together. In response to his slow, Rozanov lagged behind as well. Shane stopped and pretended to pick at something in his shoe.

He got a weird look in response. “We’re in public, Rozanov. We hate each other,” he said defensively. Rozanov rolled his eyes.

“No, we do not, and they do not care about us here.”

“Okay, maybe this small town doesn’t care about us, but CCM certainly does.”

“Hollander, you are so boring.” God, Shane wanted to punch him in the face so bad. Didn’t he understand what would happen if even just one person pulled out their phone and took a video? He told Rozanov exactly that and got another eye roll in response.

“No one will care, they know we are both here for CCM, not on a romantic getaway.”

“Yes, but they will talk about us!” Shane felt like a petulant child, but Rozanov was being so infuriating. Rozanov looked at him and didn’t respond, his face unreadable. He opened his mouth as if to give a retort but closed it and looked away, eyes shuttered. He let Shane fall behind a couple steps and continued walking.

They made their way into the conference room on the second floor, which was more like a side-room of a restaurant meant for larger groups, with big windows that looked over the pool. Against the walls were set boxes and camera bags, and other gear that Shane couldn’t recognize, belonging to the CCM production crew. In the center of the room was a big table of about 10 people, maybe less.

It was a smaller group than he normally worked with, but he was typically at the CCM headquarters in Montreal with their full studio. He recognized Jonathan, the director, the director of photography, Christine, the camera operator, Carly, and their usual creative voice, Max, but none of the other faces.

“Oh good, you’re both here. Come have a seat and let’s talk about the plan for the next couple of days.” Jonathan gestured to the two remaining chairs around the wooden table. It had a glass top, where Shane could see the water ring from everyone’s beers on the surface. At twelve thirty, he thought to himself.

“Can I get you guys something from the bar?” Asked Max, standing up.

“Just a ginger ale,” Shane said overlapped with Rozanov’s, “Corona with lime, please.” They looked at each other, Shane giving him a raised eyebrow. The infuriating Russian raised one back.

“Glad to know the rivalry is still alive and kicking, boys,” Jonathan said with a laugh. “We’re counting on it for this shoot.” Shane thought to himself that the rivalry was just people’s imaginations pitting them against each other, but kept his mouth shut. He won the Voyageurs their first Stanley Cup last year, tying them with Ilya’s Cup. He was going for it again this year.  

Jonathan continued. “This year we’re drawing on the recent strength of the Florida teams for a themed shoot, highlighting the contrast of ice hockey and the beach. I’ll let Max explain his vision.”

Max, who had returned with their drinks, spoke up and said, “Originally we were hoping for a beach shoot in full pads and covers, mixing sand and sea with ice, but with the upcoming weather we’re shifting gears to more of a stormy, dark vibe.”

“In terms of photographs,” Christine jumped in, “we’ll do a mix of solo shots in our new apparel line and then do some more creative ones with both of you guys. We won’t have any videography besides short form because we don’t have a rink.”

Around him, different people were chattering in response to the idea of tomorrows shoot. Ideas, first looks, first poses, direction of the sun at different points of the day, and other stuff Shane just tuned out. Rozanov had already finished his beer.

Shane personally thought this whole idea was stupid. Also offended at being the figurehead for a shoot that was meant to highlight the stupid Florida teams. But they were paying him to have a beach vacation and be famous, not disagree with their beach-ice hockey photoshoot, so he kept his mouth shut.

“The first outer bands of this storm are supposed to hit us around 3 tomorrow, so we’ll do makeup and first outfit in here at 1:30 and be on the beach by 2:45. That good with everyone?” Jonathan said, to resounding yesses from around the table. “We’re getting catering tonight from a local seafood joint down the street. It should be in this room at 6.”

This was the most relaxed he’d ever seen the CCM team, and he chalked it up to the laid-back atmosphere of the Florida beach. They’d never invited him to a vision meeting in Montreal, and certainly never offered him a beer. If this meeting were outside in the sand, he bet everyone would have been barefoot.

Breaking up the meeting, the group scattered. Some headed to a van where they were going offsite for lunch and others to the bar. Shane headed back to his room where he could avoid Rozanov for a couple hours.

September 12, 2015 - 3:35 PM

A thud on his door woke him up. He scrambled out of bed, confused. Wha-

“Hollander!”

Shane rolled out of bed and blearily swung the door open realizing a second too late that he was only in his boxer briefs. Rozanov pushed his way into the room, unheeding his feeble protest. He was still wearing the flowy linens, but now with even less buttons done, and the cuffs of his pant legs rolled up to expose his ankles.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, what are you, old man?” Shane was too groggy to respond with anything witty.

“Fuck off, Rozanov. What do you want?”

“Moy kotik you look so angry, for what reason?” Ilya said with a smile, moving about Shane’s room without a care. He picked up Shanes’ neatly folded clothes from earlier, laughed, but carefully set them down. He moved over to the bed, where Shane’s abandoned book had apparently put him to sleep.

“Would you- stop it, Roz. What are you doing?” Rozanov didn’t even look over at him. “Are you drunk? And what does ‘moy kotik’… or whatever you just said, mean?”

“Ah, just,” Rozanov waved his hand, “a word for short, angry hockey players. It is a slur of the most offensive degree,” He finished with a wink in Shanes’ direction. “And no, I am not drunk. Russians do not get drunk. More...as you say, tipsy.”

“What are you doing here? Anyone could have seen you come in!” Shane said angrily, moving to wrench his book out of Rozanov’s hand and pull him off the bed. He succeeded in wrenching the taller man into a standing position, but Rozanov grabbed the book out of his hand, threw it on the floor, and pulled Shane into him in response.

Strong arms wound around his waist as Rozanov drew their hips together and looked him dead in the eye. “I told you I would fuck you, did I not?”

“You did, but-” The words were swallowed by Rozanov’s mouth as he took Shane into an all-consuming kiss. He didn’t make any pretenses, no soft peck or slow slide of closed mouths – this was all lips, teeth, and tongue. Shane was hopeless except to let out a small groan and return the fervor, a heat building in his lower stomach.

Shane did his best to keep his head screwed on straight, to remember that they were in a bungalow with probably very thin walls.

He failed, of course, as soon as Rozanov’s hands grasped his ass and lower back, kneading the muscles with strong hands. His hands were rough and calloused, and the friction felt wonderful. No chance of keeping a head when the other man was this good at kissing.

Rozanov moved from Shanes’ mouth do the underside of his jaw, the spot he knew full well would make Shane cave instantly. Sure enough, Shane moaned breathily and moved to run his hands underneath Rozanov’s shirt.

As much as he loved making out like teenagers, Shane was desperate to get clothes off. There were a couple buttons still done up, so he busied himself with undoing them one by one as Rozanov continued to lave and suck at Shane’s skin.

“Ah, fuck, Rozanov,” Shane breathed out, finally pushing the shirt over those strong muscles. “Don’t forget I have to be on camera tomorrow. No -ah, fuck- hickeys.”

Shane felt a grin against his neck and then the sharp sting of teeth nipping at his ear in response, but no words. Rozanov returned to Shanes’ mouth, now moving to push him into the bed, planting a hand on the top of his thigh. Shane instinctively raised his other leg in anticipation for Rozanov to keep moving him back. He was rock hard now, uncomfortable in his briefs, and he longed for Rozanov to take the last of his clothes off.

 Instead of taking Shane out of his pants and finally giving his dick attention, Rozanov pulled all the way off and fully walked away to lean against the dresser.

Shane went cold and very empty all of a sudden, sitting straight up in the bed to see what was wrong, before catching Rozanov’s face on the other side of the room.

The smug asshole was tenting in his white linen pants, but he crossed one ankle over the other and cocked his head at Shane, with a smirk and a knowing glint in his eye.

“Ah,” Rozanov breathed out, pinning Shane with that stare, “now he is happy to see me.”

“What the fuck. Come back,” Shane all but whined. Maybe it was a full whine. There was a ringing in his ears, so he wasn’t quite sure how his voice was perceived.

“I think that I will wait just one moment, Hollander. To make up for you being weird today.”

“Please,” Shane begged, clenching his hands in the sheets of his bed. He was so painfully hard and so massively pissed off at this man, he could cry. But he wouldn’t because that would be horribly embarrassing and Rozanov would be so fucking smug.

Something must have bled out into his expression, though, because Rozanov’s face morphed from cocky and sure to impossibly fond, smirk changing to a little smile.

“Look at you, begging for me. I have been waiting, thinking about taking you in my bed, maybe fucking you in front of those big windows, and here I find you. Almost naked, just as eager for me.” Rozanov’s soft tone contrasted sharply with the dirty words. Almost, Shane dared to imagine, he sounded loving.

“Are you going to be good for me this week?” Rozanov asked, gazing imploringly into Shane’s eyes.

“Yes, Roz- fuck, yes I’ll be good.”

“That means you need to be okay talking to me, kotik,” Rozanov’s voice morphed into teasing lilt, as if he was sharing a secret, as he took a step closer to Shane. “Even if there are people around.”

He continued, moving to press Shane’s shoulders into the mattress but leaving his legs on the floor, Shane staring up at him, greedily sucking in the words. This was so different then their usual routine in-season. They’d never hooked up outside of their scheduled hockey event except from the first time and at the NHL awards, but they had always been distracted with so many other factors. Rozanov was offering a part of him that Shane found himself desperately wanting – a chance, maybe, hopefully, to relax.

Rozanov confirmed it a beat later when he said, “No one here expects us to ignore each other the whole trip, Hollander. We can…as you say…loosen the reins. Welcome to Florida, Hollander.” With that, he leaned in close to Shanes’ mouth, bumping their noses together. He looked softly into Shanes’ eyes searching for something, Shane didn’t know what. Satisfied with whatever he found, Rozanov kissed the tip of his nose, and then switched modes entirely and captured Shanes’ mouth in a bruising, hard kiss.

“Tell me you understand, Hollander.”

“I…fuck…I understand. I’ll be good.”

Shane was too taken aback to do anything, including inhale a breath, as Rozanov consumed him again. He’d do anything to keep kissing Rozanov, to keep the warm weight on him, to continue the intimacy and comfort. He was dizzy from the switch-up, and maybe the lack of oxygen to his brain. He got his break when Rozanov pulled off of him, leaving his torso cold and weightless, pulled his underwear down, and swallowed Shane down in one go.

Welcome to Florida, indeed.

September 12, 2015 – 5:00 PM

They’d been lounging on Shanes’ bed for the last hour, a post-fuck haze surrounding their showered bodies, when Shane realized that this was the longest conversation him and Rozanov had ever had.

Conversation wasn’t the correct word for whatever strange, back and forth, twenty-questions adjacent, thing they had going on, but it was continuous and had been going on for almost an hour, and Shane didn’t know what was going on. They had both showered separately in Shanes’ bathroom, but instead of dipping to his own room, Rozanov was still sprawled out on the bed, head pillowed on Shanes’ lap.

Shane was careful to keep his hands to himself, not wanting to disturb this moment, avoiding spooking Rozanov into making up some excuse and leaving. Rozanov, however, seemed incredibly relaxed. He was answering Shanes’ questions animatedly, hands waving in the air as he spoke in that distinctly European way. Every so often, usually accompanied with a tease, he’d reach over and touch Shane, tugging at his ear, slapping a palm up under his jaw, even once grasping Shanes’ thigh.

Shane was asking questions, and Rozanov was answering, and they were going back and forth, but there was no chance he’d remember the conversation afterwards. He was so laser focused on doing anything he could to keep Rozanov right where he was. He didn’t want to go deep into analyzing why he had that feeling, but he chalked it up to enjoying time with a friend, like he would Hayden. But, you know, with more physical contact and post-fuck looseness.

Shane had his eyes tracing the individual strands of golden hair twisting up from Rozanov’s scalp, not paying a lick of attention to whatever the man was talking about. Some team party, something about Cliff Marleau.

“Hey, dickhead, why do you not listen?” Rozanov snapped good naturedly, reaching up to slap Shanes’ cheek to get his attention. In response, Shane grabbed a fistful of blonde curls and tugged.

It had the…opposite effect of annoying Rozanov. Instead, Shane watched as his beautiful hazel eyes fluttered shut and the man let out the most cat-like sound he’d ever heard a human make, some sort of purr. He reached up and grasped his wrist, holding tightly.

“Do that. Again.” Rozanov said, rubbing his head back and forth where Shane was trapped, frozen above him. They’d never touched like this while just hanging out. They’d never just hung out, period.

Tentatively, Shane tugged again at the mess of hair, eliciting another soft sigh.

“Good. Yes, you can go harder. I have strong head.” Shane shook his head to himself, fondly, and let his hands trace the patterns his eyes had followed earlier.

He loved this kind of contact with Rozanov, and he was incredibly afraid to admit it. They’d never done this. He caught himself holding his breath and loosed it. He found some strands at the base of Rozanov’s neck and followed them up until they fell out from between his fingers. Shane repeated the same thing on the top of his head, then the sides.

It was a rhythmic, almost-brainless sort of motion that required no thought and elicited no need for conversation, so locked in on the feeling of smooth hair between his own fingers.

“This is nice, no?” Rozanov asked. Shane thought he caught a glimpse of timidity in the question that wasn’t really asked as a question. Maybe he’d imagined it. He had no idea why Rozanov, the strongest and most self-assured person he’d ever met, would be timid or unsure.

“Yeah, it is.” Shane replied, falling silent. They were both quiet for a while after that. Shane would have paid his entire Rolex deal for that year to know what Rozanov was thinking about.

Was he thinking about a girl in Boston? Or a girl in Moscow? Perhaps many girls. At the same time. Maybe he was trying to think of ways to end things with Shane before the season started, with the Bears out for blood and to tie-break their Stanley Cup record.

Maybe Rozanov was thinking about how hard it was to continue seeing each other in season. How he might’ve wished they had more time. Maybe he was savoring every moment, afraid of spooking a goodbye. Maybe every time Rozanov left a hotel room first, he was insecure about being kicked out. Maybe, when Rozanov wanted to stay up and talk, he would unfold one article of clothing at a time and put it on so slowly.

Maybe, Shane thought to himself, I’m projecting.

Shane was jerked out of his musings by his phone ringing from the bedside table. He looked over at the Caller ID and saw his mom’s face on the screen. Talk about a mood killer. He would hate her a little bit if Rozanov left his room over this.

He looked apologetically down at Rozanov, who had jolted in surprise at the intrusion, roused from his trance, and said, “I’ve gotta take this, sorry. I’ll get rid of her.”

Rozanov waved another hand and replied, “Do not worry, Hollander, I do not care about your boring conversation with your mother. Keep a hand in my hair, please.” With a pleased smile, Shane leaned over and answered the phone.

To his surprise, his dad was the one to greet him on the other line. Shane didn’t want Rozanov to leave but also wanted to avoid embarrassment, so Shane replied in French.

“Allô?” Rozanov jerked his head underneath Shane’s still hand, so he shifted the weight of his phone to between his ear and shoulder and used both his hands to massage and pull at Rozanov’s hair.  

“Hey, buddy. How are you?” His dad said, voice calm.

“Good, what’s up? Where’s mom?”

“She’s in the den watching the news. Have you seen the most recent update about this storm?”

“No, what’s happening?” Shane felt Rozanov glance up at him and quickly resumed his ministrations before Rozanov did something stupid like open his mouth to demand, with his dad listening, that he keep scratching his head.

“The track shifted, Shane. The eye is gonna pass closer to you now, south of you guys over Miami. It’s got a name now. Tropical Storm Jane.”

“Jane?” Shane said incredulously. Rozanov was now very aware of the conversation and looking up at him. “The storm is named Jane?” He asked in English, making eye contact with Rozanov.

Rozanov mouthed, “What the fuck,” at him, with a soundless laugh, but Shane just shook his head.

If his dad had questions about the language change, he didn’t voice them. “Yeah. You guys should still be okay, but your mother is starting to freak out. That’s why she’s glued to the news. Apparently, there’s this famous meteorologist flying over from Texas, Jim something?”

“Tell her we’re going to be okay. No one here is worried about the storm at all, we haven’t even heard anything.” Shane rolled his eyes at Rozanov who could probably hear the conversation through the tinny speakers. The man was sitting up now besides Shane, their knees pressed together as Rozanov tried to eavesdrop.

“Shane, honey? Are you there?” He heard his mom’s voice and groaned to himself. He pushed Rozanov’s head away where it had crept up close to the phone. The man came right back with a huff, like a dog looking for a treat.

“Yeah, mom.”  

“How are you doing on food? Does the hotel have a good emergency supply? I’m online right now for a grocery delivery service down there, I can have water and canned food delivered within two hours.”

“Mom,” Shane warned, embarrassed. Rozanov was right there. Listening. “I’m fine. I’m at a hotel. No one cares over here. We haven’t even been warned about any negative effects. Hell, we’re even planning the photoshoot to happen around the first bands of the storm!”

“I’m just worried, sweetheart. You’ve never been through a hurricane before.”

“Neither have you,” Shane retorted.

“Yuna, he’s got a whole brand team there just for him. He’ll be fine. It’s not even a hurricane, anyways.” He heard his father, Voice of Reason, finally step in. “Son, let your mother worry.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Shane said, silent. He didn’t know what to say after that, not with Rozanov sitting right there. “I’ve got to head to dinner with the team soon, so I’ll talk to you guys later, okay?”

“Bisous, mon chéri !” His dad closed, before his mom could jump back in and derail the conversation.

“Bisous !” Shane answered, hanging up and throwing his phone down the bed with a sigh. He mentally judged the distance between him and Rozanov before committing to a collapse against his shoulder. Rozanov shifted him so now their roles were reversed from earlier, with Shane laying in the other man’s lap.

Shane closed his eyes for a second and then laughed. “Tropical Storm Jane?” He snorted. “You’d better watch out, Lily.” Rozanov gave him a bright smile and pat on the shoulder.

“I do not know if anyone has chance against the wrath of Tropical Storm Jane, Hollander. Everyone needs to watch out.”

Shane was still chuckling to himself at the irony when Rozanov asked, “What does ‘bisous’ mean?”

He felt his face go hot and blood rush straight to his cheeks and neck. “Uh, ‘kisses’, I guess. It’s a kind of way to end a conversation in French, usually with people you’re super close with, like family. I’d never say it to, like, J.J.”

“Hollander, that is so boring and so cute at the same time.”

Shane was still red, turning his face to hide from those hazel eyes and that smile. “It’s embarrassing, is what it is,” he muttered. “My mom is a helicopter mom.”

“A what? What does this mean, ‘helicopter mom’?” Rozanov grabbed Shane’s face to turn him back forwards to make eye contact, long fingers wrapping around his chin.

“Like, when parents are hovering around you, being overprotective, overbearing. She needs to lay off, I’m a fully grown adult. You know?”

“Ah, I…yes. I…do know.” Shane didn’t think Rozanov actually understood, but the other man didn’t ask for more clarification. They were both silent for a beat, Rozanov now moving his hands through Shanes’ hair.

Shane noted the careful tone in Rozanov’s voice when he next spoke up. “They are good at being parents, Hollander. You should not be embarrassed about them.” Shane remembered exactly zero times that Rozanov had ever talked about his own parents.

“Are they going to get the news about this storm in Russia? Do you need to call them?”

“No, Hollander. They will maybe see about the storm but they do not pay attention to me like that.” He waved his free hand, as if to pass off any concern. Shane thought that the other man was playing the situation off as unimportant, because the hand that was massaging his head stopped its motion and instead went to fiddle with the gold crucifix around his neck.  

He thought that he was maybe a massive dick for complaining about his family to a guy who kept details about his family background locked tight in his chest. Shane knew absolutely nothing about Rozanov’s home life except for the fact that he was born in Russia and went back every off-season. Had just returned from there, in fact.

Shane didn’t have time to think of an appropriate response because Rozanov spoke up again. “Do you think I could borrow them, sometime? Your family, I mean.” There was a touch of humor in his voice, the self-deprecating kind.

“Are- is your family not- good?” He asked, stammering his words a touch. He hoped Rozanov would seriously answer instead of skating around the topic or deflecting with humor.

“They care a lot about my success as a hockey player,” He replied, but Shane could feel Rozanov picking around words as if he was leaving pieces of the puzzle scattered around the room. Shane wasn’t good at puzzles and was even worse at picking up on indirect communication.

“That’s good, though, right?” He said, a little bit stupidly.

Rozanov gave him a pat on the cheek like one would a child. “They care much about hockey and not enough about Ilya. My money pays for their life, Hollander, that is what keeps them…interested, as you say.”

Shane didn’t know what to say. He thought if he opened his mouth he’d ruin the whole thing, but he did it anyways. “I’m sorry, Roz- Ilya. That they suck.” He hadn’t meant to switch up to calling Rozanov Ilya, but it’d had happened anyways. The other mans’ eyes warmed as he gazed at Shane.

Ilya was really good at eye contact, Shane thought.

“It is okay, Hollander. But I would like your mother to deliver me ‘key lime pie’ from the store on her fancy delivery-app.”

The tension broken with Shane’s laughter, Rozanov pinched Shane’s side to make him curl up in defense, and used the momentum to pull Shane up so that he was leaning against Ilya’s strong chest, arms banded around his front.

Shane felt a little kindle of warmth in his belly from the conversation. He felt so honored that Rozanov had opened up to him like that. He tried not to read into it so much, but Shane could feel himself imagining the two of them like friends instead of just people who hooked up every so often.

Ilya pressed a kiss into the skin behind Shane’s ear, and Shane allowed for himself to relax against the larger man, letting his head fall into the crook of his shoulder. Ilya looked at the time on Shanes’ watch, which Shane noted as 5:42 PM.

They had 18 minutes until meeting the CCM team for dinner, but that didn’t stop Shane from nuzzling his head against Ilya’s neck, turning to breathe into the soft skin. He kissed the side of Ilya’s neck, addicted to the contact between the two of them.

He didn’t know why, but Shane felt his heart pounding in his throat. Maybe it was the multiple forms of intimacy they had been practicing. They’d never talked about family before, and Shane felt so comfortable in his arms. The weight of huge arms, tight across his chest, felt like the most comfortable vice, like a weighted blanket, like an anchor, keeping him from drifting away.

Ilya seemed to sense the change in Shanes’ energy because he whispered into his ear, nibbling at the top, “What do you want, kotik?”

“You,” Shane whispered back, feeling unfathomably brave. He darted his tongue out from behind his teeth to lick a stripe up Ilya’s neck. The other man loosed a breath, pinching one of Shane’s nipples. Shane groaned into hot skin. He could feel the quick flutter of Ilya’s pulse beneath his lips.

“You have me,” He responded. Shane thought that there was no way that Ilya meant that in the way he hoped it meant but dared to dream anyways. He allowed himself the fantasy that they weren’t Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, that instead they were just two men who had met at a coffee shop, or at the gym.

Ilya rubbed one of Shanes’ nipples with a delicate, single finger and pinched the other, rolling it between two. Shane arched his back in pleasure, a sigh escaping him. He shifted uncomfortably where he half-lay, and Ilya took it as a cue to move them so that Shane was seated in between Ilya’s legs, now fully leaned up against the other mans’ chest. Neither of them had put anything on other than briefs after their shower, so their bare skin was pressed together.

They had 18 minutes before they had to be rivals again, but right now Shane couldn’t imagine a universe in which they’d ever been anything but lovers.

One of Ilya’s hands remained on his front, sliding from nipple to pec, to Shanes’ biceps, the skin of his neck, and then back down to his nipple. The other traveled lower, pinching, and circling skin as it snuck underneath the band of Shanes’ underwear.

Ilya didn’t bother taking them all the way off as he trailed a hand down Shanes’ fully hard cock, thumb circling the tip and then sliding back down. There was a drop of precum forming, Shane could feel it damp against his underwear. Ilya’s hand made a slow trail back up to his tip, Shanes’ heart pounding even harder in his chest, he was now writhing against the man.

“Please, Rozanov,” Shane whimpered. “Don’t fucking tease me,” he could barely get the words out.

“But you make it so easy, malysh,” Ilya groaned back.

A rush of pleasure filled him and the sensations and at the Russian words. He clamped both hands down on Ilya’s thighs as the man jerked him harder. He fell into a rhythm of pants and moans as Ilya touched him, pulling up and twisting his hand.

Behind him, Rozanov was moving against Shane in a rhythm as well. Shane could feel the hard length of Ilya pressed against his lower back, twitching, and he was rolling his hips into Shane’s back.

One of Ilya’s hands remained on Shane’s torso, and every twist of his nipple sent a zing of heat through him.

Shane wouldn’t last long, he knew that. Rozanov was showing him no mercy, wasn’t drawing this out in any sense. His back was arched, and he was digging his head into the top of Ilya’s shoulder. Writhing beneath his hands, Shane was at the mercy of Ilya. He prayed the man wouldn’t stop to do something crazy like stop to talk about their feelings.

“I- Keep going- please,” he panted, closing his eyes against the feeling rushing through him. His toes were tingling now, maybe from pleasure, maybe a loss of blood flow, he didn’t know. Ilya was babbling something in his ear, in Russian, and Shane couldn’t understand but it was making him feel all sorts of hot anyways.

He should learn Russian, he thought.

The tingling in his toes rushed up through his legs and then exploded as Shane came all over Ilya’s fist, coating him and the top of his stomach as he cried out, hunching inwards at Ilya still rubbing him out. The overstimulation was at the same time too much and not enough, and he was still coming as Ilya slowed his movements.

Aftershocks of his orgasm and exhaustion were moving through him but Shane could feel damp on his back, almost like-

“Did you- did you come?” Shane asked incredulously, turning to face Rozanov.

Rozanov looked away bashfully, his cheeks turning a little red, but didn’t answer.

“Look how the tables have turned, huh.” Shane said, getting up to hop in the shower. He had a certain satisfied pleasure coursing through him, both from the orgasm but also that Ilya had been so aroused that he’d come untouched. It was usually the other way, Shane coming way too early and easily. He was very satisfied that whatever he’d done, Ilya had come just as fast.

Shane would have loved to bask in the post-orgasm haze for a little bit longer, but there was nothing like a meeting-time to keep him focused. He kissed Ilya quickly on the mouth and headed in. “We’ve got to shower quickly before dinner. We’re gonna be late.”

Ilya looked at him a little bit blankly and nodded. “I will, uh, go to shower. In my room.”

“Why? It’s faster to shower together. Aren’t you always going on about saving water? And you have your clothes in my room already.” Shane realized, when he didn’t get a response, that Ilya was starting to act a little weird. His hands were rubbing at the tops of his knees as he sat at the side of the bed. The expression in his face was a little…off.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Shane asked, a little unsure. The post-sex bliss was fully gone now, and Rozanov wouldn’t make eye contact with him. Ilya almost always made some sort of comment when Shane came too quick, but Shane never actually minded any of them. Had he offended Ilya? Shane would never try to make a joke again.

What had he done wrong? This kind of formalness was normal for before they started fucking regularly during the season, not for the last couple years and certainly not expected after the day they’d just had. Usually if Shane made an unfunny joke, Ilya was quick to shut it down, typically just on the edge of mean but not unfriendly.

Shane had the sudden urge to flee out the front door and return to his hotel room with Hayden or the safety of his house to wait weeks until they’d eventually forget about the weirdness, but they were both in Florida together stuck at this CCM shoot. He couldn’t give up now, though, they’d been doing so well.

Shane’s heart was dropping lower and lower in his chest as he didn’t get a response from Rozanov. Where had it gone wrong in the last 10 minutes? Looking at Rozanov right now was like looking into a blank portrait, frozen in time and starting off to the side.

“Is…what is happening right now? Is this about what I just said? Or…your family?” He asked, desperately, throwing out the first things he could think of. But it was apparently the wrong fucking thing to say, because that frozen expression shattered and Rozanov whipped his head around, eyes narrowed, and his mouth screwed up into a tight frown.

 “I will go shower in my own room, Hollander, if you will be okay for five minutes.”

Shane was floored. What the fuck? “Jesus, Rozanov. Okay. I’m sorry,” he added at the end, trailing off a bit. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was sorry for.

His confusion was very quickly morphing to anger as the other man stood up and started gathering his clothes from around the room, pulling them on. He was moving as if the room was on fire. Yeah, Shane was definitely at anger now.

Nothing? Seriously? Shane wanted to shout at him, but the words were caught in his throat. That was probably a good thing. What did I do wrong?

Neither of them said a word for the awkward couple seconds that Ilya was getting ready to leave, until he went to open the door.

“See you at dinner?” Shane didn’t mean it to be a question, but it came out anyways, desperate for anything from the other man, desperate for some sign he hadn’t ruined everything. He got no response. Instead, Ilya walked out the door and closed it behind him, slamming it either on purpose or accidentally. An asshole, either way.

Shane winced at the sound of the clatter of whatever decorations were hung outside his room and then the sudden silence surrounding him.

What. The. Fuck.

September 12, 2015 – 6:17 PM

Shane was late for dinner. And when he arrived, he saw that Rozanov wasn’t even there yet.

“Hollander!” Jacob said, standing to wave him into a chair as he approached the table. “Glad you could make it, there have been some updates.”

Shane immediately thought about Ilya. Maybe the other man had bailed on the ad shoot because of whatever freak out had happened earlier, or that he was involved in an accident. Maybe somehow CCM had found out about the two of them and were cancelling his brand deals.

He should have been less relieved when Jonathan continued with, “It’s about the storm, Tropical Storm Jane is now building to become Hurricane Jane when it hits the coast of Miami.”

Thankfully, Shane was able to pivot and turn his attention to the actual reason that he was in Florida in the first place, for a shoot. “What does this mean for filming tomorrow?” He probably should have asked about their safety instead of the plan, but Jonathan was always more than happy to talk about the shoot.

“Shoot wise, about the same. Maybe we’ll have some timing issues tomorrow. The storm is tracking a little faster now, so I think we might want to get our first shots done around 8:30, or maybe even 8 tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, so what time for everything else?” Shane asked the question but used it mainly as an excuse for the rest of the team to start going through the schedule for tomorrow while he could mentally check out.

If they were going to shoot in the morning, they’d probably rebook his flights for the afternoon once shooting ended, without a need to stay overnight. And if they did that, it would probably be a quick turnaround from shooting to heading to the airport, meaning there’d be little time to see Rozanov and figure out what the fuck was going on.

Not that Shane would have anything nice to say, at least judging from right now, he was feeling some serious whiplash from the emotional rollercoaster they’d been on.

Maybe he’d become Hurricane Jane. Or, even worse, maybe he’d cry.

If they didn’t get a chance to talk, or fuck it out, like they did after particularly tough games against each other, who knew when they’d next play against each other. Or if this was it.

Maybe this was Rozanov’s last straw, whatever had happened between them. Maybe Shane had asked too many questions, had gone one step too far. He’d misjudged their conversation for intimacy.

The next time they were together, he would keep his damn mouth shut.

And this was the line of thinking that Shane had finally uncovered in his brain. That they had gotten too close, too fast. That their uninterrupted afternoon had revealed what Shane had always feared to be true, that the two of them were nothing to each other except hockey rivals that sometimes got together to fuck.

That the warm Florida sun, relaxed atmosphere, and the removal of all their distractions had turned him into someone who looked too closely at a very transactional relationship. He’d missed all of Ilya’s signs and signals that this wasn’t intimacy. He’d misread facial expressions all day, heard subtones in words that meant nothing, and took it to mean something completely wrong.

And Ilya never showed up for dinner.

September 13, 5:37 AM

Shane was going to abandon this shoot and go back to Canada where they were respectful of others’ sleep. He gave a vague shout to whoever was banging on his door before the sun was even up and blearily rolled out of bed to unlock the door and swing it open.

It was Brendan, the hotel attendant.

“So sorry, Mr. Hollander, we tried calling the desk phone,” He started, apologetic. He handed Shane a ceramic mug of hot coffee he’d brought along with him.

“It’s alright, what’s going on?” Shane asked, taking the mug, growing more and more aware by the second.

“We just got the most recent update on Jane from the National Hurricane Center, and we’re being advised to move all guests away from the beach area and to the interior building onto the second through fourth floors.”

“Oh. Uh, should I be worried?” Shane hadn’t ever gone through a hurricane, but it couldn’t be any different than a snowstorm or blizzard, right?

“No, no, we’ll be fine. It’s just, the airport is closing within the hour because of crosswinds and our beach huts are at a small risk of storm surge. Do you know anything about hurricanes?”

Shane gestured towards Brendan to come in as he started gathering his stuff to transfer rooms. “No, not really.”

Brendan nodded and continued to explain. Brendan was a total towhead, surfer-type, and his laid-back tone and body language suggested that he definitely thought it was a smaller deal than the NHC thought it was.

“The storm is getting a lot stronger than any of us thought it would be once it left the islands. The warm waters makes it stronger, you see. Great for us wind junkies,” he paused and laughed, “but also means that the storm is gonna be pushing a lot more wind and water towards us in the coming day. A lot more than anyone thought.”

Shane stopped what he was doing and just stood there, looking at Brendan.

“No, no! It’s going to be okay. Seriously. In all of my life, I’ve never had a huge problem with storms. It’s fun, I promise.” At this, Shane started to listen as Brendan described the hurricane party that the hotel had hosted in the 2^nd floor conference room a couple years before, at the kitesurfing and windsurfing some of the staff would do when the swell started to come up, and the other shenanigans during hurricane season.

He finished putting his stuff together (It had taken all of 5 minutes, really,) and allowed Brendan to grab his bag to move rooms.

“Unfortunately, since we’re condensing, we had to put you and someone else from the CCM team in the same family suite on the third floor. You’ll have your own room but in a suite with a Jack-and-Jill bathroom, shared living area, balcony, and kitchenette. It’s the other hockey player, I confirmed it with Jonathan before we made the arrangements. Everyone else has been doubled up since check in. You and Ilya Rozanov were the only ones in the bungalows. I hope that’s okay, because now our interior building is full of all of the other guests having to move from the garden, too.”

At this, Shane froze.

He was going to have to share a suite with Rozanov? The same guy who’d bolted out of Shanes’ room yesterday like it was on fire? The same guy who’d touched him so sweetly and opened up to him and then completely changed personalities to become a raging asshole?

They moved to head outside of the bungalow, where Shane immediately noted the cool temperature and wind. He was grateful for his mug of still-warm cup of coffee in his hand. There were soft market lights lighting the pathways but no hint of dawn yet. Shane got a horrible sense of foreboding. The wind was strong enough to whip his clothes around and tug at the ankles of his pants. Brendan kept on walking, completely oblivious to Shanes’ discomfort.

Him and Rozanov? In the same suite? And the airport was closed, this fucking storm was getting stronger (it felt like it was on top of him already), and he had to completely change plans.

This blissful weekend he’d been hoping for was falling apart at the seams. First, some stupid photoshoot vision he didn’t understand in the slightest. Second, a hurricane was coming to hit them. Third, Ilya had been a complete fucking dickhead and Shane cared way too much about it.

He wouldn’t survive the weekend.

And as him and Brendan entered the front door of his new hotel room, dropped Shanes’ bag in the front entryway and walked into the room, four things happened in quick succession that completely proved his point.

1. Brendan the Bellboy led Shane to the hotel room door and gave him the keys before making his goodbyes and heading back to the stairwell.
2. Shane entered the room to Ilya Rozanov, who looked up from where he had been pacing in front of big sliding glass windows, shouting in furious Russian.
3. Shane Hollander dropped the ceramic mug of hot coffee, shocked at the yelling, which shattered onto his white sneakers.
4. The hotel lights flickered once, twice, and then finally went out.

Chapter End Notes

part 2 is almost done being edited! you'll get ilya's pov next! crazy to think that this is my 5th fic in one month and I've started this beast of a story. anyways, comments and critiques are always appreciated - Queenie :)

Chapter 2: i can't run at this pace very long

Chapter Notes

ilya is just a sad loverboy but i tried to do him justice.

hint: the theme song of this chapter for me is at the same time red wine supernova by chappell and also trying to reason with hurricane season by jimmy buffett. we've got a little bit of a roller coaster of angst to fluff here, guys.

i'm so sorry in advance for the jimmy buffett references guys haha this chapter was the entire point of the title lol

- Queenie :)

September 13, 2015 - 5:50 AM

Ilya knew that he was his own worst enemy, that only he was to blame for all of the problems in his life.

He hadn’t been able to face Hollander at dinner the night before out of shame. Shame at his reaction to coming too early, shame at being too soft for the other man, and shame at throwing himself at Hollander all day.

Shame at letting fear dictate his actions, turning a beautiful afternoon into a complete fuckup.

God. Hollander probably thought that he was the biggest asshole on the planet for running out on him like that.

He hadn’t actually cared that he came so soon. How could he? Shane came untouched and too early all the time. It was one of the most attractive things about him, how easy it was to make Shane fall apart.

 His own reaction, though, was from why he came so soon. The sudden rush of emotion that had overcome him, the fondness for the other man, the feel of a heartbeat against his own, the new word that almost sprang free from his lips, the one he struggled to name, even in his own head-

And he handled it in the worst way.

He hadn’t eaten either, and that brought him to now, on the phone with Andrei, a call that was going so poorly. His phone had rung just after the attractive hotel attendant had dropped him inside his new room, soon enough that he hadn’t even been able to overthink his new sleeping situation.

The call had nothing to do with the impending hurricane, of course. Andrei hadn’t even mentioned it.

According to his brother, his father was not doing well. They had spent the night in the hospital after Polina had caught him after falling, hitting his head on his way down. Andrei had only told him about out once it came time to get discharged and pay the bill. Physically, his father was fine without even a concussion.

He still would have wanted to know about it, which was why he was so irate on the phone, anger and helplessness coursing through him.

Ilya didn’t know how he felt about his father being fine. Couldn’t tell if he was glad for the clean bill of health or exhaustion that they’d have to continue to find meds that worked, continue to sustain the life of a man who was so horrible.

Last time they’d talked before he left Russia, his father had said some horrible, nasty statements about his mother.  And now Andrei was going off at him for late payments for his monthly allowance, and asking for more to cover the hospital balance because he didn’t have enough stored for emergencies, and Ilya was so fucking angry at his shitty life and his shitty family.

But there was no time to think about that, because Shane Hollander was in their hotel room, shards of ceramic on the floor, coffee spilling everywhere, the power was out, and he had to put off the conversation with his brother for another time to deal with it.

He left Andrei still cursing at him, stabbing the end call button, and threw the phone across the room where it clattered onto the floor. It was probably broken, but oh well. Another way to keep distance between him and Andrei.

There was no light in the room and dawn was just barely starting to break, but Ilya went to open the curtains wider anyways.

“Sorry for interrupting,” Hollander muttered. His head was down, and he wasn’t making eye contact with Ilya. He was stood there, frozen and unmoving, staring at the coffee on the floor.

Ilya didn’t reply at first, moving instead towards one of the beach towels stacked on the front table. He knelt at Hollander’s feet, tried to ignore the other time’s he’d done that, sopping up the coffee. He let himself simmer in residual anger before deciding to open his mouth.

“It is okay,” He landed on, his mouth struggling to form around the English words. It had been since yesterday with Hollander since he’d spoken English in any polite way, and hot blood was still coursing through his veins. “Watch out for the…sharp…on the floor.”

English felt thick on his tongue. He hadn’t had coffee yet, either, so sidetracked by his asshole brother.

Shane toed his shoes off at the door and tiptoed around Ilya and the mess, picking his stuff to get the coffee off the bottom of his bag. Ilya forgot how much of a clean freak Hollander was. It was kind of endearing, if he was being honest.

“Thanks,” Hollander said, awkwardly. He was still just standing there in the front entryway, now moved away from the mess, staring at Ilya, hands in his pockets. The man was clearly uncomfortable in the aftermath of yesterday, and he felt a stab of sadness. He’d truly fucked that one up.

“Do not worry,” He offered, attempting to make eye contact with Shane. It didn’t work.

There was still no light, and Shane took his shoes off in hotels and houses, so he needed to make sure each piece of sharp mug was swept off into the corner. Ilya collected the sopping towel, used it to gather the sharp pieces of ceramic, and bundled it up before depositing it into a pile behind the door.

The motion helped him calm down enough to where he didn’t fear accidentally taking his anger out on Shane.

“This room is mine,” Ilya gestured to the left-most door in their small couch-area and then to the right, “This is yours. For however long we are here.”

He went to retrieve his phone, checking the shattered screen. Behind him, he heard Hollander enter the room and close the door behind him. To his immense surprise, Hollander came right back out with the same book he’d been reading yesterday and sat down in one of the loveseats.

“How can you read that? There is no light in here.” He’d try humor, to get their normalcy back. They hadn’t addressed the elephant in the room yet, whether it was the argument they’d had or the fact that there was a hurricane coming, the power was out, and the airport was closed.

But Ilya knew how to chirp, and he knew what would make Shane chirp back. It was his favorite pastime, riling him up.

This time, however, Hollander didn’t say a word, he just put glasses on and stuck his nose in that book.

“Since when do you wear glasses?” Hollander just looked at him and then looked back at his book. No way the other man was actually reading in this light. Silent treatment it was. Ilya knew how to play that game.

He was probably being the biggest asshole on the planet for trying to rile Hollander up after storming out on him yesterday evening, but there was a buzz in his head that he couldn’t quiet. The kind of buzz he’d silence in Russia with coke and women, and in Boston with hockey and fast cars, also women. And his phone screen made it hard for him to see anything, so there wasn’t even anything he had to distract him with.

He’d fallen asleep in the hammock the day before to the sounds of some southern artist playing on speakers at the hotel bar yesterday. The guy had been crooning about a hurricane (fitting) and Ilya had listened only to be shot in the heart at the sentiments the singer had expressed about needing a rest, not being able to continue at the same pace for very long.

Ilya had spiraled in his head about that for a long time before drifting off into sleep, disliking the parallels to his own life. Russia hadn’t been fun this summer, instead filled with this frenetic energy bouncing between the nightclubs and hard drugs to his ailing and worsening father. And then he was a mere week from the preseason and another hockey season of busses, planes, and almost every night in a different city.

He needed a rest, needed the shoot with Shane to offer him up something he could hold onto for just a little bit longer.

He needed to quiet the buzzing in his head, quiet the ugly words telling him to sabotage this thing with Shane, telling him he needed to take an indefinite break from his sorry existence. He needed to fix his fuck up with the only good, if not complicated, thing in his life.   

He flopped down onto the couch with a huff, letting his exhale trail into the still silence.

He tapped a foot against the floor, baiting Hollander. He knew his restless energy wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“The storm is crazy, da?” Ilya said, continuing to tap his foot. Maybe babbling about something would get Hollander’s attention. Maybe crawling into his arms, sobbing apologies, and begging for forgiveness would do the same. “I wonder if the hot bellboy will be out in this.”

At that, Ilya received a carefully blank look. Shane feigned disinterest, he could tell it was fake, and looked out the windows where he was beginning to see a hint of dawn. He kept talking, hating himself even more.

“He told me all about this sport…kitesurfing. Brendan, his name. He uses a surfboard and a big kite and flies through the ocean. It seems very dangerous, and I do not understand it. How do you say? Exhil…arating. I want to try.” He wasn’t even making that up. It seemed like the next thing for Ilya to distract himself with, to replace not having drugs or his cars within reach.

There were so many words in the back of his head he wanted to use, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know how to apologize to Shane for running out on him, he didn’t know how to explain that he’d never felt so vulnerable, and he especially didn’t think he could explain how he’d wanted to cry out, “I love you” when he’d made Shane fall apart. It was what made him come so soon, after all.

Love. A new emotion for Ilya. He’d reacted like a scared child in the face of it. A stupid, scared, emotionally stunted child.

“I can imagine the wind now. Let’s open the doors.” Ilya got up with a sudden movement and threw open their big sliders. He let out an exaggerated exhale when he breathed in the cool wind now whipping through their tiny suite. Maybe it’d blow the argument right out of Shane’s head and they could go back to normal.

It was blowing through the curtains and ruffling through the curls on his head. And it was certainly blowing around the pages of Hollander’s book, because he heard an angry-

“What the fuck, Rozanov!” Ilya turned, sheepishly, to meet Shane’s angry words. His eyes were narrowed in frustration. Ilya got the feeling he knew what Ilya had been doing the whole time.

Finally, he reacts.

It didn’t feel as good as he’d hoped it would. He was filled with remorse; Shane hadn’t done anything to deserve this. “Would you just sit down and chill the fuck out?”

Ilya sat down and crossed his arms like a petulant child. But he could feel English forming into sentences inside his brain, and they would bubble over and leave his entire heart spilled and vulnerable on the table if he wasn’t careful.

“Shane,” he started, and caught himself. First name. That was new. Ilya sighed but continued. “I am sorry.” He couldn’t be a child about this anymore, he owed it to Shane to give him at least an apology.

He had Hollander’s full attention now, the other man putting the book down on the end table. He also took his glasses off. There was no expression of confusion, but Shane asked anyways, “For what?”

 “I am not asshole like that. I should not have left you so suddenly. It was a bad thing for me to do, leave you…vulnerable.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov, I am not vulnerable.”  

He wasn’t saying his point well enough, Ilya guessed, if Shane was caught up on being vulnerable. Maybe vulnerable was the wrong word in English. “I am sorry for running out last night. For not taking care of you, after. For not going to dinner. For you hearing my argument with Andrei. For being asshole.” He paused, thinking about what else he could say. “You were nothing but nice to me…it was…good. We were good.”

Shane didn’t respond, just looked at him. Ilya had done such a careful job yesterday of trying to get Hollander to relax around him a little bit, and once he’d actually done it, Ilya ruined it by slamming the shutters closed again. Shane didn’t deserve that.

So, he said it, Shane looking on. “You do not deserve me to leave you like that. You listened to me talk about my family, let me hear yours.” And for probably the most vulnerable thing he’d ever shared with another human, certainly with Shane, he said, “I liked that. Us talking about something other than hockey. Or sex. Just each other.” I love you, a voice screamed inside his head.

He wondered if Shane could see love bleeding out from his pores. He certainly felt like his heart was on his sleeve, pumping just for the man sitting across from him, staring with an unreadable face. He wished it was lighter in this room, wished that he could see Shane’s eyes better, make sure he understood.

“I was…confused. About why you left.” Shane said, breaking eye contact. He was dancing around something; Ilya could tell it from the shiftiness. The rest of his face was frozen, like usual, but Shanes’ eyes were windows into his soul in the most literal sense. “Why did you leave?”

“It was a lot, I think. I felt a lot.” That’s all he offered up at first, before adding, “I am not that good at…feeling.”

He really hoped that Shane understood what he was saying, as much as he hoped the other man would overlook it. For all his careful English sentences prior, he found himself unable to elaborate on this one. All that was writing itself in his brain was I love you, I love you, I love you, and he knew he couldn’t say that.

How could he admit that the ‘lot’ he felt, was actually just love? There weren’t the right English words, or even Russian, that he felt comfortable admitting out loud.

He’d only just started admitting them to himself in the confines of his head.

“I think sometimes I feel a lot, too. I am not very good at knowing that I feel…anything.” Shane said softly and looked at him imploringly. One of the knots in Ilya’s chest loosed with this. Was it possible that he could feel the same? Maybe Shane was holding those three words back too.

Maybe Shane was remembering every meeting they’d had since maybe Vegas, since maybe before the Olympics. Maybe Shane had also been seeking reasons to stick around after their hookups, only to come up empty and insecure. Maybe Shane was also so terrified of rocking the boat that instead he’d been silent for years.

It was that fear of rocking the boat and throwing everything into unbalance, the not-yet-distant memory of Russia, and the still-ringing shouts of Andrei in his head that kept him from asking what, exactly, Shane meant. The urge to open his mouth and spit the words out was tearing at him, but he held back.

He hated himself a little bit more for that fear, wished he could just be an uncomplicated man who could have this good thing.

“I am glad that you also feel a lot.” Ilya stood, walking over to place a hand on Shanes’ shoulder. He squeezed the strong muscles, gently. His throat was closed up, just a bit. He couldn’t make eye contact anymore. All he could do right now without falling apart was a hand on the shoulder. His eyes were burning, but no tears fell. If he said anything else, or looked into Shane’s big, dark eyes, they probably would. “I’m going to go back to sleep.”

He went to his room and closed the door behind him, dropping onto the bed. He put his head in his hands and let some of those tears fall, choking back a sob with his fist in his mouth.

His head felt so heavy, and he was so, so sad. Maybe he was upset over nothing. Maybe he was overthinking this whole thing.

Yesterday Shane had been so kind to him, letting him see his perfect family and then understanding about his own. They’d lounged on the bed together, just talking, like boyfriends might, and it had been so perfect. Shane had let Ilya see a little slice of life, but he’d freaked out and ruined it.

And now, with a quarter-measure declaration of love, Ilya had fled again, and they were stagnant once more. Possibly a step above meeting in cold hotel rooms for a maximum of two hours, yes, but stagnant again.

If he didn’t have a sick father, financial obligations in Russia, and the whole mess of what it would mean to be gay in the hockey world, to be involved with his rival, Ilya felt that he still wouldn’t be able to broach the topic of conversation of defining whatever convoluted relationship they’d found themselves in. It was too scary, too uncomfortable, and there was so much at risk in letting his heart bare itself on his sleeve.

He never actually slept, just dozed in and out of consciousness for a while before voices finally reached through to his brain. There was more light peeking through the heavy curtains on the windows of his room, now, also.

Choosing to ignore whoever was talking out there, he let the fantasy he’d been spinning over in his head play out.

He could hear Shane in the kitchenette outside the bedroom, and fancied himself the vision of a different life, one where him and Shane were together for more than a couple of hours. Maybe Shane was making his own morning coffee, black without cream or sugar – the boring way. He’d come in the bedroom, closing the door softly to avoid waking Ilya, unknowing that he was already awake. He’d give a mug full of cream and sugar to Ilya and kiss him on the forehead, whispering a good morning and asking how he’d slept.

They’d make breakfast together, or have sleepy morning sex, or work out together before starting their day. Maybe they’d be at the All-Stars game on the same team (a true fantasy) and get to practice together and play together. Ilya would play wing for any chance of them on the same line.

But as his head created visions of increasing incredulity, like playing on the same NHL team, being out in public, shouting ‘I love you’ from rooftops, he was forced back into cold reality.

In his dream, he’d been someone truly cheerful and easy to be around, with no clouds in the back of his head, wanting to rage against anything good. Nothing trying to convince him that he didn’t deserve good. No self-sabotage, he wasn’t afraid of the intimacy. There was no thought of home in those fantasies. Russia didn’t exist. His father and brother played no part. The homophobia and locker room talk weren’t in those visions. In those dreams he’d had, there was no such thing as discrimination or hardship for people like them.

It was a sobering reality.

Ilya roused himself to get out of bed to put a shirt and shorts on, noticing the heat, realizing that the air must have gone out with the power while he’d been dozing.

He wasn’t sure who was out there talking with Shane, but he steeled himself for whatever news they would receive about the storm. He steeled himself again for accepting whatever relationship Shane wanted to practice with him. Whether it be back to rivals or even strangers.

“Morning, Ilya,” Came Max’s cheerful voice. The creative director smiled at him. Ilya nodded in return. His brain, while clearer and more awake, still didn’t have much translation ability.

Shane, though, to his insurmountable surprise and pleasure, handed him a cup of coffee in a to-go mug. His hand was awkwardly in his pocket as he did it, and he offered up a little smile.

Okay, not strangers or back to rivals. Maybe Shane was a mind reader, had seen his dream of the two of them.

“The kitchen staff boiled some water for us with some instant coffee, it’s really good stuff. Café Bustelo. These guys swear by it. Be careful,” Shane was rambling, Ilya noticed with a fond thought, “it packs a serious punch.”

Ilya was too tired to know what that last phrase meant, but he relished in the strength of the coffee and who had handed it to him.

“I’m glad to see you guys won’t kill each other while we’re stuck here for the next couple of days.” Max laughed, gesturing for them to sit around the small coffee table. He had some papers in his hand, and a calendar.

Ilya didn’t know why he said it, and Shane certainly gave him a look of alarm, but he opened his mouth anyways and the words fell out, “The rivalry is mostly for them…you know, the cameras.” He paused. He didn’t really know what to say after that, but both Shane and Max were staring at him like he had three heads. “I do not actually hate Hollander. He’s a great player, and only a little bit annoying to be around.” The last part was added just to cover the heart eyes he was probably giving Shane.

He heard a thanks, dickhead, muttered under Shane’s breath.

“Anyways,” Max said, giving him a weird look. Maybe Ilya hadn’t masked the heart eyes that well. “We’re going to reschedule the shoot for another time. The hotel manager on duty is going to give us an update soon about the storm, but right now it’s too windy to use the equipment outside.

“I think our only time in season will be over the Christmas break or at the All-Star weekend, though the specific days haven’t been announced. We’re hearing from the NHL that All-Star might be in Tampa or San Diego, so if that’s the case, we’ll stick with the same creative vision for the shoot and have both of you guys together for it.”

Both him and Shane nodded in vague assent, directing Max to speak with their individual agents. Neither of them managed their own schedules. In fact, it was surprising that neither of them had their agents in Florida for this shoot at all.

Ilya knew that personally he wanted time alone with Shane or with the potential for time with Shane. He also wanted it to seem like a real break, and not like a weekend trapped with his agent, who would spend every waking moment reviewing his upcoming engagements for the season.  

Who knows why Shane had come alone. In his dream-world, he fancied that he wanted the same as Ilya.

Max finished whatever he was talking about, dates, visions, outfits, bullshit that Ilya didn’t need to pay attention to. Shane, the good boy that he was, had been nodding along and asking the perfect follow up questions. Ilya wondered how he had the patience for it.

“I’d prefer it if we could schedule it during All-Star, rather than Christmas break. It’s the only real days off we get during the season.” Ilya disagreed with Shane’s opinion, he wished that he was able to spend those lonely three days off with Shane instead of in his Boston apartment. Saying it aloud would make him seem pretty pathetic, though, so he kept quiet.

Max made a note of it and got up to leave. “Hotel staff will talk to us in the conference room, with the other guests of the property, in about 15 minutes. They have updates about the storm. See you guys soon.”

September 13, 2015 - 8:00 AM

After a cold shower and chugging the rest of Shane’s coffee, Ilya felt so much better. His cold shower had been on purpose, to wake himself up a little, but Shane had complained before leaving about the lack of hot water.

Things were mostly back to normal between them, in the brief time between Max’s visit and the upcoming hotel meeting. Him and Shane were back to that quasi-friendship they’d discovered yesterday. Not quite friends, but not just purely hookup buddies like they used to be.

He’d take it. Ilya never wanted to return to the coldness of what they used to be.

They made their way to the conference room, joining the five-or-so other groups of couples and families that were at the property, along with the CCM team. They found a seat towards the back of the room, having been the last ones to arrive. Ilya let Shane sit down and he took a spot a step behind him.

It was dark inside the conference room, but the curtains were open to let enough light in that they could see the hotel staff towards the front of the room.

“Thanks, everyone for your patience. We know that this is a pretty unstable situation, and new for many of you, so thanks for bearing with us. Couple things to know,” said a tall man at the front. This must have been the manager. “First, you all are safe here. This building is built to code, and since we’re all on the top floors, we’re far outside of the predicted storm surge limit. Second, the generator to the kitchen is working, which means that we’re at cooking capacity. And bar-capacity.” He got a couple cheers for that.

Ilya was certainly happy to know that he wouldn’t have to go through this storm sober the whole time.

“Our second generator should hopefully be up in the next couple of hours, enough to power rooms like this one and more of the common spaces throughout the property. Unfortunately, until the state power company sends their trucks, which could be tomorrow or next week, your rooms won’t have power.”

There was some grumbling. Ilya could agree. He hated sleeping hot and sticky, preferring to set his house to 18 degrees (64, for the Americans), so he never woke up sweating.

The manager went on. “In terms of the storm, the strongest it’s predicted to get is a Category 1. Not the worst, it’ll mostly just be rain, but we’ll start to get some heavy winds this afternoon that make it unsafe to be outdoors. It’s expected to make landfall early tomorrow morning about 200 miles south of us. We’ve got close-range radios specifically for this, where you all will be able to hear updates from us in your rooms about mealtimes, power, and general storm updates.

“We shouldn’t expect the cell towers to fail, but if they do, we’ve got sat phones in the office and they can reach emergency services. This area isn’t under an evacuation notice, so we’re still able to receive EMS and Fire for extreme circumstances.”

Ilya, so locked in on translating in his head what all of these new words meant, had only just now noticed Shane’s leg bouncing under his seat. The man had his hands clasped tightly together, visibly anxious. Maybe not visible to anyone but Ilya, but he recognized the signs pretty easily.

Ilya dared to place a warm hand on the nape of Shanes’ neck in comfort. They hadn’t spent much time together where it actually counted, but Ilya knew all about Shanes’ mannerisms and discomfort over the unknown. The other man preferred to repeat his habits, stuff he knew and was comfortable with, and this was clearly not it. They were at the mercy of a hotel property manager, not under Shane’s domain of knowledge.

To his immense pleasure, Shane didn’t try and nock his hand off. Ilya saw the foot stop jiggling underneath the chair.

Ilya found himself unable to translate correctly what the manager was explaining. He thought that he didn’t fully understand the situation, that maybe he had mistranslated the gravity of this hurricane.

Just as hard as translating words, he found it hard to translate the reactions of the people around him. On one side, the hotel staff had this excited air about them. On the complete flip side were people like Shane, who were no doubt expecting the worst. The group was a mix of both, and Ilya truly couldn’t tell how bad this storm actually was.

He didn’t know what the worst-case scenario was, but he’d bet his million-dollar contract that Shane was imagining all the different ways they could die in this storm.

Ilya decided to just let it be, think of the best-case scenario, and try to stay as calm as possible in the face of Shane’s anxiety.

The hotel manager wrapped up his briefing and the crowd dispersed, most heading to the dining room where there was a basic buffet breakfast. Ilya, who hadn’t eaten anything except for a bar around 3PM yesterday, was starving, and left everyone behind to go shovel something down.

Brendan, the cute bellboy, stopped him on his way down the hall.

“Hey, man, I heard y’all’s shoot got cancelled. If you and the CCM dudes get bored, me and some buddies’ll be out kiting and surfing until the swell and wind gets too big and we have to board things up. Come watch us rip out there!”

Ilya thought Brendan looked like a giant golden retriever, all hair-flopping, excited air about him. He’d never seen this kitesurfing activity, and he definitely liked strong men soaking wet, so he’d probably go out and watch for a while. He’d bring Shane along too, try to get the other man relaxed.

It was definitely a better alternative than sitting in their stuffy room and watching Hollander dream up the worst, that was for sure.

He ate as quick as he could and headed back into the room, making up a plate for Shane before he went up. He’d noticed the other man hadn’t eaten, and tried to pick out the healthiest, pro-hockey player diet he could.

A couple hard-boiled eggs, toast, ham, and some fruit. Perfect.

To his surprise, or maybe not, Shane was curled up on the couch with a book on his hand and those glasses balanced on his nose. He had another cup of coffee in one hand. Ilya wasn’t that great at reading English from a distance, but he was pretty certain the book was upside-down.

Ilya dropped the plate onto the coffee table and went to their kitchenette to grab a bottle of water, throwing a “You need to eat,” over his shoulder as he went.

He turned back around to a strange look on Shanes’ face.

“You brought me food?”

“Yes. Eat it.”

“Why?” Why? Why wasn’t Shane eating yet?

“Toronto just got that new defenseman and you’ll be playing them a lot in the preseason. He’ll kill you if you don’t get bigger.” Ilya couldn’t help but rib at Shane, a little bit. He was sure that hockey would get him out of his head.

Shane rolled his eyes at Ilya but picked up the plate anyways. He picked around the food, pushing the bread and ham to the sides. “Fuck off. He’s not that big.”

Ilya needled at him even more. “No, perhaps not. But you are still smaller.” That got Ilya the ‘scrunched anger face’, the one that reminded him of an angry kitten. But Shane was at least acknowledging the food, so that was his job done. It really was so easy, sometimes.

“Are you scared?”

“About what?” Shane asked, incredulously. “Toronto? Shut the fuck up, Rozanov.”

“No, idiot. The storm. Hurricane Jane. What a name, huh?”

“Oh. Uh…” Shane paused, and Ilya could tell he was putting up a front of calmness.

The facts were that they were stuck in Florida with the airport closed, that they were in the hotel for the foreseeable future, that they didn’t even know if they would make it to the start of preseason practice next week.

Shane was probably a wreck in that beautiful brain, but there was close to no chance he’d admit it out loud.

There was so much up in the air. And sure enough, Shane answered in the perfect way that a good, media trained boy would. “There’s a lot out of our control, so it doesn’t help us to worry.”

“Bullshit, Hollander. You have barely stopped fidgeting since the briefing.”

Ilya received Shanes’ smushed angry face but no response.

“When you’re done eating, we are going outside to watch whatever crazy sport they are playing in the wind. It will be fun.”

Shane just nodded. He finished the plate, even the bread and ham.

He felt a very specific rush that went straight to Ilya’s dick that he had titled the Shane Hollander is an Obedient Slut for Me feeling. It surprised him every time to see him do what he was told. It was the most amazing feeling.

He would never, ever, name that feeling for Shane to hear, though. He’d spook the other man. It was just for himself to know. That satisfied pleasure would be settled warm in his chest for the remainder of the morning.

When they finally made it outside, bringing a thermos of the coffee with them, they found about 10 people on the beach and in the water with various watersport materials. They found Brendan, too, unspooling a bunch of lines on the beach that led to a big kite.

“Glad y’all made it! It’s ripping out, yeah?” Brendan’s energy and smile was so contagious, he could see even Shane’s mouth twitching in response to Brendan’s adrenaline high.

“A bunch of the other guys are out too. I’m taking the kite, but there are some other daredevils out windsurfing.” And sure enough, Ilya squinted to see what looked like a tiny little sailboat-surfboard contraption with a little man standing up on the board. It must have been really far out there. As he watched, the windsurfer hit the crest of a wave and launched himself maybe 10 meters into the air.

Brendan gave a loud whoop and pumped his fist in the air at another person down the beach.

Ilya looked to Shane in shock, the other man with his jaw dropped open. Brendan continued babbling about whatever these psychos did for fun. Ilya loved adrenaline and the thrill of a high, loved the rush that came along with driving cars really fucking fast and clubbing and even the occasional line of cocaine, but this was something else.

“We got a couple guys come in this morning from Miami, chasing the swell from the storm. And I think more are on their way. They’ll hang here for as long as possible and then keep moving up the coast to avoid the dangerous wind and ride the fun breeze for as long as possible.”

Ilya secretly thought that they were fucking crazy, but also admired the lifestyle. He liked his routines in Boston too much to drop them on a dime to go chase some big wind and storms.

Though, now that he thought about it, in Boston he did kind of drop everything on a dime for the pull of a good party quite frequently.

Him and Shane took a seat on the beach, Shane making a face at the sand stinging their skin, settling in to watch the surfers.

They passed the thermos of hot coffee between them for maybe an hour while they watched, Shane’s presence beside him comfortable but far enough away to be casual. They didn’t talk, there wasn’t really a need.

Ilya flashed back to the day before where he’d been in the hammock listening along to that song, what he now knew was a Jimmy Buffet song, Trying to Reason With Hurricane Season.

It was a special sort of irony, he thought. It was usually hard for him to listen to a song in English and understand the lyrics, but this one had been slow and mellow enough to track most of the words. He’d been laying there, tired and drained after coming from an exhausting summer in Russia. He’d come here hoping for a chance to rest, just like in that cheesy song.

He’d woken up to Shane, his dream, and his hope of resting.

In this moment with Shane, watching all of the athletes in the water launch themselves off waves and speed along the surface, the long flight from Russia and uncertainty between them was completely worth it.

One hundred percent.

September 13, 2015 – 5:30 PM

They were already drunk, and the sun was only barely starting to set. Not that Ilya could tell when the sunset was, with clouds covering the sky and wind continuing to howl around them.  

Ilya sipped on his sixth (seventh?) Corona and listened to the lively conversation around him, jumping in here and there to remind everyone of his superior wit and humor. And to make Shane laugh, of course. The other hotel guests and CCM crew were sitting around the covered pool deck with him and Shane, their second location of the afternoon.

The surfers had come in around 4 o’clock, claiming the winds were too strong and the distant rumble of thunder was getting too close. They’d packed up their gear at about the same time the bar staff had started making batches of cocktails.

He had been a good boy up until about an hour ago, and then Shane had finally leaned into the pressure from everyone to just have a damn drink and relax, Hollander. Ilya checked the level of his Corona, leaned over to look in Shane’s Red Solo Cup, and got ready to go get another round.

They were laying on pool loungers bolted to the concrete, adjacent to each other. He couldn’t move his lounger to get a better look but was enjoying taking side glances at Hollander.

He’d not been around Shane tipsy in a long time, not since the NHL awards in Vegas where Shane had won Rookie of the Year. Age had made Hollander even more strict with his performance diet, famously not drinking during or before the season. But today, Shane was on his third rum punch, making it a special occasion.

Shane had a little smile playing around his lips and freckles standing out on reddened cheeks. Ilya was doing his best not to ogle the other man, but his shirt was uncharacteristically unbuttoned to three from the bottom and he had his shorts ridden up strong thighs to catch a tan.

The drink had made Shane's usually closed-off and inexpressive face looser than Ilya had ever seen it, and Ilya was sure that anyone looking at him could tell just how in love Ilya was. Every now and then, Ilya caught himself staring outright, and felt a little bit untethered.

The red cheeks and smile were (unfortunately for their public location) the exact same as Shane’s fucked-out face. Ilya tried really hard to not think of fucking him into that pool lounger, hard enough to loosen the bolts. Tried hard to not think of them on display, everyone from CCM and the anonymous hotel guests, watching him fuck his rival hard enough to make the man forget his own name. Tried not to think about Shane Hollander, helpless and begging, maybe on his knees with Ilya’s dick in his mouth, reddened cheeks next to swollen lips.

He adjusted his shorts from where they were now pretty tight around his crotch.

The bar out on the beach had relocated to temporary quarters under the pool deck because every so often they’d get hit with a downpour and howling winds. They weren’t all that dry under the awning, but it was a little bit safer from the stinging sand blowing around the beach and any debris starting to move.

The hotel staff had already boarded up the beach bar, sunk the plastic furniture in the pool (Ilya thought that was the weirdest way to keep chairs from flying around, but whatever) and wrapped the hammocks around the trees, but they were in the weird between-time that signaled the end of normal weather and beginning of Hurricane Jane.

People had been talking about a cone, and them being newly inside a cone, but Ilya hadn’t understood what it meant and didn’t care to ask and sound like an idiot. He knew about hurricanes from common knowledge, but hadn’t ever bothered to learn the English vocabulary surrounding them.

There wasn’t anything to worry about, though, because the hotel was mostly business as usual. No one looked at all anxious or stressed. It seemed like nobody wanted to spook the herd and shutter up indoors yet. And luckily, Shane was drunk enough to have lost the perpetual anxiety surrounding him, but Ilya knew that Shane was never a good judge of a situation.

“Last call before we move everything into the conference room, guys! We’ve got a little bit of the punch left,” called the bartender to the remaining guests outside.

Ilya hated to ruin this easy-going vibe he’d gotten into with Shane out on the pool loungers, not wanting to go indoors to where things would likely be less free and easygoing. There was certainly something to be said about lounging outside next to a pool, even if they were in the middle of a hurricane.

Ilya picked up two more Red Solo cups worth of rum punch and brought one to Shane who gave him a smile and a happy little, thank you! The dark, almost black sky looming in the distance didn’t seem to faze his or anyone’s moods, which Ilya was grateful for. He was especially sensitive to the moods of other people outside of the hockey arena, and in most social situations he fed off of the good vibes of the people around him.

Not to mention he couldn’t actually tell how bad this hurricane was.

They’d been shooting the breeze with the CCM guys and some of the adrenaline chasers from down south for the last couple hours, chatting about everything and nothing all at once. Someone had connected to the pool speakers and was playing more Jimmy Buffett and other, way more annoying, country music.

He’d even just learned the American phrase, ‘shooting the breeze’ from these guys.

It was the strangest group of people he’d ever interacted with. And hockey players could be pretty strange, so that was saying something.

Someone had even pulled out a joint, which they’d both declined. It was technically very illegal, but this seemed like a lawless place, the time right before a hurricane. Right before preseason though, they wouldn’t pass the upcoming drug tests if they smoked.

Ilya wondered if good boy Shane Hollander had ever smoked weed. Probably not, but Ilya secretly thought it would do the other man a lot of good. Maybe, just maybe, if Ilya didn’t ruin everything between them, there’d be a chance in the future to get perfect Shane Hollander high. Or at least in his fantasy world.

Shane was making eyes at him as they sucked down the rest of their drinks. Even drunk, Shane was carefully quiet, as if knowing his drunk self would spill out something very inappropriate, but Ilya could see the thoughts in his head spinning around.

Ilya flexed his arms behind his head and threw a discreet wink in Shane’s direction, causing the other man to sputter and look away.

Could anyone tell that Ilya’s heart beat only for this man and this moment? When would they get another chance to just be men laying on pool chairs?

They finished their drinks and moved indoors with the group just before the largest squall so far hit them. The dark sky had been creeping ever so closer since the morning, and it was finally upon them. As the sun got dimmer and dimmer, the dark clouds over the ocean covered the sky completely. It was ominous. He tried to convince himself that everything was still okay.

Ilya heard someone inside say that they were under a tornado watch, whatever that meant. Apparently, it was fine and normal, that a ‘watch’ just meant the possibility of tornados.

The drinks and good vibes surrounding the little resort had done an amazing job at distracting everyone from the impending storm, but it was clear that moving in from the free-flowing drinks, music, and pool area had drastically changed the mood.

Some people settled upstairs in the conference room while others dispersed to take a shower before the hotel served whatever food they’d been able to prepare. Ilya snagged a deck of UNO cards and two bottles of water from the game table and went up to the room, moments behind Shane who’d already ducked the group and gone up.

Ilya’s phone had 50% battery left, so he used the opportunity to put music on his little portable speaker. He never left home without it, and if Shane had a problem with it, well, he’d have to bunk up with a CCM guy.

Shane was already in the shower and Ilya could hear him stumbling around in there. He laughed to himself at clumsiness, trying to commit it to memory. He laughed again at Hollander’s curses about the cold water.

The song that started playing was that song, Trying to Reason With Hurricane Season. He didn’t want to think about the lyrics to that one, so he switched it to something equally mellow but more uplifting, his ‘hazy and drifting Sunday evening playlist’. He struggled to maneuver around the shattered phone screen from where he’d thrown it earlier that morning, avoiding scratching his fingers.

On the edge of psychedelic rock, this playlist was what he leaned on when he wanted to be high in season without actually smoking. Shane was sure to hate it, but he didn’t care.

He settled on the couch and waited for Hollander to finish showering so they could switch. It was only 6pm, but their sitting room was very close to dark and Ilya felt like the day was winding down. In Boston, he maybe would have another 8 hours of life left in him. Here, not so much.

Shane stumbled out of the bathroom with a muffled curse, a towel wrapped around his tapered waist, and froze at the sight of Ilya sitting on the couch with his speaker.

“What the fuck are we listening to?” He said, cute little nose wrinkled in disgust. Ilya’s heart clenched at the use of ‘we’.

“…Music?”

“This isn’t music, Rozanov. This is a group of people all playing a different song.” That was a pretty fair assessment, actually, of the jam band currently wailing into microphones and on various instruments, but Ilya loved it.

“I will teach your culture. Just listen.”

“I will not,” Shane said irately, and went to his room. Ilya could hear him rustling around in there trying to find his clothes in the dark.

He smiled and rushed through his shower, his dick growing closer and closer to fully hard. It had been hovering around half-mast since his little daydream at the pool. It definitely wasn’t going away, not with Shane as loose and uninhibited as he’d ever been in the room next door.

He wasn’t even sure that all of the conditioner was out of his curls when he got out of the shower and strode into Shane’s bedroom.

The other man was sprawled on the bed, apparently having failed to find clothes, as he was still naked. No sign of the towel. Ilya could barely see Shane in the dark, but the silhouette of him lying there was possibly the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“Hi,” Ilya said, a stupid smile on his face as he approached.

“Hi,” Shane smiled back, reaching out his arms to draw Ilya into a kiss. He groaned and leaned into the kiss, tonguing at Shane. He pulled back to take a bottom lip between his teeth then passed his tongue over the hurt, smoothing it before diving back in. Ilya felt something slick and damp against his back and reached back for one of Shane’s hands.

“Hollander, you-”

“Yes,” Shane responded.  Shane’s right hand was slick with lube already, and Ilya’ s blood rushed straight to his dick with the knowledge that the man had been opening himself up while Ilya was in the shower.

Forget silhouette-Shane, this was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“I was in the shower for 5 minutes…” Ilya breathed out.

“Yes,” Shane said, impatiently. “Now will you finish the job and fuck me already?”

Ilya kissed him, howling in his ears. He was so turned on. He patted around the bed for Shane’s bottle of lube, finally finding it and squeezing some onto his fingers. He rubbed it a little to warm it up, before seeking Shane’s rim.

Shane gave a whimper against his mouth as Ilya’s finger breached his hole and then exited again. God, he was already almost ready for him. Ilya used two fingers this time, relishing in the writhing and whimpers of the man beneath him.

Ilya was still kissing Shane, tongue sweeping into his mouth, biting and sucking at his lips.

Drunk Shane was an even better kisser than Sober Shane, the usual holdbacks and inhibitions lowered. They were hot and heavy and completely unrestrained. Shane moaned into his mouth every other breath, and it was the hottest thing that Ilya had ever heard.

He thought that maybe he’d make a list, afterword, of his “Hottest things Shane Hollander has ever done”. He had so many things to put on it already.

Ilya dipped down to the pulse point beneath his jaw and asked, “I think you are ready now.” Shane whimpered and nodded. Ilya was working him pretty hard, three fingers pumping in and out, searching and reaching for his prostate. “Use your words, Shane. Are you ready for me?”

“Y-yes. I’m ready. Please, Ilya.” Shane breathed out, “Please.”

“Good, Shane.” Ilya said softly, his tone contrasting with the filthy sounds of his fingers moving in and out of Shane.

Ilya rolled over and pulled a condom out of the pocket of the shorts he’d put on after his shower.

Shane positioned himself on his side, arching his back so prettily and Ilya folded in right behind him, moving his hips into position.

Ilya grasped Shane’s hips as he slowly pushed in, drawing a moan from both of them at the sensation. For Ilya, the tight, hot heat of Shane sent a thrum up his spine and the almost-uncontrollable urge to slam repeatedly into the other man, he wanted to speed the whole process along.

But he was patient and dragged himself out of Shane with an almost gentle withdraw, much to the consternation of the man he was fucking. Shane wordlessly whined at him practically begging him to keep going.

As much as he wanted to fuck Shane into this mattress, Ilya was enjoying drawing it out, enjoying the soft and rhythmic slide of his dick into tight heat.

But his own impatience and arousal got the better of him, and he made his thrusts more forceful, moving one hand to brace on Shane’s upper chest for better leverage.

Shane grunted underneath him at the sudden change in pace, his whole body shifting with the thrusts.

Ilya loved to watch his reactions while they were fucking. Shane had his eyes screwed up and his throat bared, head trying to bury itself into the pillows while panting and moaning uncontrollably. Ilya could never admit it out loud, but he wanted to record Shane’s moans and cries to use as jerk-off material for when he was back in Boston. Shane would be mortified if he knew, but Ilya thought it was the hottest thing ever.  

He mentally added it to the list.

Ilya decided that he needed to bring Shane a little bit towards the edge, to play with him just a little bit, so he reached over and grasped at Shane’s cock, tugging it up with the rhythm of his thrusts.

Shane let out a stilted moan at the sensation. The man had stopped speaking, Ilya wondered if he’d forgotten how to. The man was definitely wild, writhing beneath him.

Playing with Shane had backfired on him, and Ilya was very quickly on his way to losing his mind as well. His head was swirling around the sensations of his dick thrusting into Shane and he couldn’t help but lose his rhythm just a little bit.

His orgasm was coming, he knew that. He needed to make sure that Shane came along with him. His thrusts became more erratic as he slammed himself into Shane and tugged his dick in sync.

“Are you ready to come for me, Shane?” Ilya groaned out, his eyes rolling back. Shane didn’t answer with words but with instead some half-moan, half-sob, falling out of his mouth. Ilya thought, with no shortage of pleasure, that he saw the beginning of a tear forming in the corner of Shane’s eye.

Ilya was slamming into Shane, losing his mind over the feeling of his tight hole squeezing his dick and yes- there it was, Shane was tight and hot and coming and spurting up into his hand and squeezing around his cock and then Ilya was coming so hard he couldn’t breathe, he had to keep the words bubbling up his chest stay quiet god damn it, couldn’t do anything but thrust into Shane and cry out, letting the sensations ride through him and power his last couple of thrusts into Shane.

He collapsed onto the bed, heart pounding in his throat. How innapropriate would it be if he just let the words blurt out of his mouth?

I love you. I love you so much and there’s nothing I can do about it…You’re the best thing I’ve ever had in my life, and I’m scared I don’t get to keep you…

Shane fell onto his back next to him, and Ilya used the hand closest to him to rub against Shane’s hip and stomach. His eyes prickled behind closed lids, but he’d die if they became anything other than prickly.

Ilya was sweating and so hot and sticky, from the heat and various fluids passed between them, but he couldn’t be bothered to get in the shower again and leave this moment.

“You okay?” He asked Shane, leaning over to press a kiss against a strong shoulder. “You did so good for me.”

“You killed me, Ilya. That was so hot.” Shane breathed out. “I think I forgot my own name.” It hadn’t even been close to the kinkiest sex they’d ever had, Ilya thought with no small amount of pleasure.

“You have my number,” Ilya laughed, wild and a little frayed around the edges, “call me anytime.”

Shane huffed out a snort and halfheartedly flopped a hand into Ilya’s chest. Ilya grasped it in his own and chanced a kiss to the other mans’ knuckles. It was the sappiest thing he’d ever done after sex. “I’m so gross right now.”

Ilya took that as his cue to get up and fumble through the bathroom for a washcloth. He ran it under the cold sink water, bringing it back to the bed.

Shane let out a yelp at the cold water touching his skin. Ilya clucked at him but continued to pass the cloth in soft strokes over the reddened skin.

“Shhh, sorry, malysh. I could not warm it for you.” Okay, calling Shane malysh to his face after sex, fully aloud for the other man to hear was definitely the sappiest thing he’d ever done after sex. He prayed that Shane hadn’t looked up any Russian phrases or names.

He left to go deposit the washcloth in the bathtub and then came to stand awkwardly in the door of Shane’s bedroom. He was hit with unmistakable insecurity, standing there, waiting for Shane’s cue for him to leave the room and go to his own bed.

“You…uh…you could stay?” Shane fumbled out; Ilya could hear the words coming out stilted. He was a little bit glad that the other man was just as raw as he was. “We have nowhere to be tomorrow.”

They had to get food eventually, but the howling of wind outside and slam of rain against the large windows was lulling him into some half-awake state of mind. He wanted nothing more than to get in bed with Shane and fall asleep with the other man in his arms. It would be new for them.

“Okay.” He said simply, letting his mouth turn up into a smile. It was too dark for Shane to see how happy he was in the moment, that Shane had been willing to bridge the gap between their past routines and now. “Let me get the radio in case there are updates from the hotel.”

He left the room to go pat around for the radio, which he had haphazardly thrown somewhere. He used the opportunity to get himself a glass of water, a chance to quiet the pounding in his heart.

He would get the chance to hold Shane in his arms. For the whole night. Something he’d been thinking about for years already. Every time they’d hooked up and fled the others’ presence, making up halfhearted excuses, he’d now get to do something as simple as cuddle.

He filled a second glass.  

He came back out to Hollander fast asleep on the bed, hugging a pillow to his chest. His mouth was slightly open, and soft sighs fell out of it as he breathed. Ilya thought he was the most beautiful thing on the planet. This beautiful, perfect, adorable man had already fallen asleep and was looking like all of the world couldn’t wake him up.

He set the water and radio down on the small nightstand and settled in behind Shane, curling his body around the other mans’ back. Shane let out a little sigh and shifted back, and Ilya used the opportunity to nuzzle his face in the dark locks of hair and breathe in.

Beside them, the radio started chattering, voices from the hotel talking about the storm updates. If someone really needed to get ahold of them, they’d knock on the door. He reached over and turned the volume down, closing his eyes again.

This was the moment he’d been looking for, the rest that the cheesy Jimmy Buffett song had been talking about. He wanted to rest, to get away from cold Russia and his horrible brother. To breathe before the season started, to give himself a chance at happiness before life got crazy again.

He wondered how long he’d be able to hold onto this for before he inevitably fucked it up.

And now I must confess
I could use some rest
I can't run at this pace very long

Chapter End Notes

gosh ilya is so hard to write, especially the smut, his POV is soooo different from shane

again, sorry for the cheesy Jimmy Buffet ;) gotta love hurricane parties, though, even if ilya barely knows what's going on. we love our slightly clueless and go-with-the-flow boy

chapter 3 should be out in the next couple of days, and i'm just about finished writing the bones of the whole thing! up next we're really gonna put the hurricane in this hurricane fic

comments and critiques are always appreciated! - Queenie :)

Chapter 3: it's time to close the shutters

Chapter Notes

i remembered this fic is actually about a hurricane so enjoy this last full chapter! next one will be an epilogue

September 14, 2015 – Time Unknown

Shane woke with a jolt, the sound of something large and heavy had slamming into the wall outside. He was trapped in the bed and there was this howling, and pounding against the windows, it was so loud, what the hell was going on-

“Rozanov. Wake up,” Shane breathed, fighting his way to upright, sheets falling around his waist. There was something wrong outside. Rain was lashing at the windows, and he could hear the thud of objects flying around. The curtains were closed, so he couldn’t see what time it was. “Ilya. Get up right now, there’s something wrong.”

Ilya shot up out of bed, rubbing his eye with one hand and grabbing onto Shane’s thigh with the other. “Whas- what is going on?” Strands of curly hair brushed against his cheek as Ilya supposedly shook his head to clear it, and Shane could feel the clench of a hand on his thigh. “What the fuck is that out there?”

He didn’t know, but he had a pounding in his head. Why had he had that last rum punch? Where was the radio?

“Table,” Ilya said. “Radio.”

Shane turned over and grabbed it. “Why haven’t we gotten an update yet? This is so much worse than it was when we fell asleep.”

“Uh…” Ilya said, voice trailing off. Shane’s heart sank.

“You idiot, Ilya. You turned it off?”

“You were sleeping! I did not want to bother.” The man said, sheepishly, accent thick with sleep.

Shane was pissed, turning the volume back up. Why did he think that that was a good idea? They were in the middle of a goddamn hurricane. “What the fuck, Rozanov?”

“Oh, you call me Rozanov again now, huh?”

Shane had no patience for the snark. There were voices coming from the radio, but he was unable to focus for long enough to listen. He reached over again to the nightstand to check his phone for the recent hurricane updates. He saw the ‘no service’ sign on the top of his phone and groaned. It was 3 in the morning. The phone lines must have been down. His mom was probably freaking out, not being able to reach him.

“We’ve gotta get up and see what’s going on.” He rushed out of the bed, throwing the sheets over and haphazardly putting his clothes on. He let out a fuck as he slammed his hip into the dresser that must have come out of nowhere, what the fuck-

“Shane. Calm down. We are okay,” Ilya said, but was interrupted by the loudest sound yet, a thunk of something huge slamming against the living room balcony door. The other mans’ voice paused, and Shane knew he was rethinking his words. There was a buzzing in his head. He’d been doing so good, yesterday, at forgetting about their whole weather situation.

Ilya carefully made his way to the sliding glass door, opening the blinds as if he’d be able to see into the pitch black.

“Get away from the windows, Ilya. There’s shit flying- and it could break-” Shane ground out, head spinning. What a way to wake up from an afternoon of drinking.

“Okay, Shane,” Ilya came over and placed a comforting hand on the back of Shane’s neck, moving the two of them into the bathroom so that they could get ready. “We are okay. We are going to dress, and then go find person who knows what is going on. And then we find food, so we can think. We are fine. We are okay.”

Shane wondered if the words were even for himself to hear.

Shane took a breath, accompanied by the squeeze of the hand at the nape of his neck. He could do this. It was just like a blizzard, except with water instead of snow, and he’d been through plenty of those. He was just startled, having woken up so suddenly, his head was returning to him, they were okay.

He’d even forgotten about his phone, so discombobulated. He had a flashlight on there.

In Ilya’s hand was the radio, and Shane could still hear the tinny words come out of the little speaker. Ilya turned the volume up.

“…rapid intensification to a Category 4 Major Hurricane…hotel guests are advised to stay away from the windows and outward facing doors…and move towards the inner hallway or stairwell…each floor will be provided more bottled water… Jane is expected to make landfall 15 miles south of here within one hour…top windspeeds recorded at 115 miles per hour in the Palm Beaches…we are under an Extreme Winds Warning and Evacuation Notice…Hurricane Jane is undergoing rapid intensification to a Category 4 Major Hurricane…hotel guests are advised to…”

Shane looked unseeingly to Ilya as the message looped itself, seeking a gaze he couldn’t find in the deep, dark room. His heart dropped further in his chest. Who knows how long that message had been looping for before they finally woke up. He was even more pissed at Rozanov for quieting the damn thing, now.

“Rapid in-ten-si-fiction?” Ilya questioned, voice smaller and way less steady. “Please explain slower, is very early, I-”

“Uh… Intensification. I don’t know the official definition,” Shane hedged, “but they’re saying the storm is getting stronger. It moved closer to us overnight and got a whole lot more dangerous.”

“Oh,” Came Ilya’s voice. “How bad?”

“Bad,” Shane said. He didn’t offer up any more explanation, and Ilya didn’t ask. Shane’s residual frustration over Ilya’s poor decision to turn the radio off fell into the empty silence. He didn’t mean anything by it, Shane knew. It seemed Ilya had only the barest idea of what was going on.

Shane patted around in the dark to find Ilyas hand to tangle their fingers together, looking for an apology he couldn’t yet voice.

They helped each other to the bathroom, both of them dressed, to brush their teeth, using the dim light from his phone. Shane wanted to splash some water on his face, try and wake himself up from this nightmare, but nothing happened when he turned on the tap.

“The water is out,” he told Ilya, voice shaking just a little bit. The other man was silent beside him.

Last minute he threw on the hoodie that was laying on the back of the couch, the soft material twisting beneath his fingers. The unmistakable smell of cologne and faint cigarette smoke marked it as not his…but he preferred it that way.  

What else would he need out of his room? Passport, cell phone? Something to do? He grabbed his book. And grabbed Ilya, who was still in the living area.

“Do you have everything?”

“What is everything?”

Shane tried to reign in his frustration. “Passport, phone, visa papers?” Did Ilya need special visa papers here? Shane didn’t need anything other than his passport, from Canada.

“Ah, okay. I have. And UNO, yes?” The man said, succinctly.

“Yes, Ilya. Uno can come too. Who knows when we’ll be able to come back into our room.”

“I left Bears sweatshirt on the chair. Have you seen it?” Ilya asked.

Oops. Better to come clean about it, he guessed. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Oh,” came Ilya’s reply, and could Shane hear a pleased tone?

“Do you want it back?”

“I cannot see, but you probably look better in it than me.” Yes, a pleased tone.

Shane took a pass around the room with his flashlight in hand, leaving Ilya at the door leading to the hallway. He tried to imagine anything he’d need in an emergency, wondered if he had time to pack his entire suitcase.

Oh, he thought, as another boom came from the balcony window, time’s up.

The other guests were already out there when they made their way down the hall and towards the stairwell door. Jonathan and Christine from CCM were sitting on the hallway floor in a circle with some other people, huddled around a battery-powered light, each nursing coffee and water bottles. There were others laying away from the light, some inside the carpeted stairwell, trying to sleep.

There was a box of wrapped sandwiches, so Shane and Ilya both grabbed one and settled in next to each other. They kept distance between them, but Shane wished that he could curl up in the other man’s arms. If anyone thought it was weird that they’d arrived together, or even late, they didn’t show it.

“All good, boys?” Jonathan asked sympathetically. They nodded but didn’t say anything.

“We’re under an evacuation notice, but it came too late for us to leave. Internet and water are out for the foreseeable future, but the hotel has a good stock of it. I already talked to your agents on the satellite phone, updated them about the situation.” He paused before adding, super unhelpfully, “Hollander, your mother is freaking out.”

Shane huffed a laugh that he didn’t feel. “Yeah, I’ll bet she is.” Ilya turned his head to look at him, but Shane kept his head down. The sandwich tasted like ash in his mouth, so he carefully wrapped it up and set it with the rest of his things.

What a fucking nightmare. It was never supposed to get this bad. They could still hear the howling of the wind from inside the hallway, but at least they missed the thud of whatever objects had come free from someone’s yard.

Christine piped up from where she was shuffling a deck of cards between her fingers, “The storm is moving a lot faster, now, and that’s a good thing. It’ll get worse before it gets better, but after about 4 hours, we’ll be on the up-and-up. And the governor already declared a State of Emergency, so he’s already mobilizing the power truck, water, and search and rescue.”

State of Emergency? Search and Rescue? Shane was doing his best not to freak the fuck out but was failing miserably. The buzzing in his head was indistinguishable between anxiety and numbness, he couldn’t place which mental state he was in. He pinched his fingers together to remind him that he was still awake.

She continued, and Shane noted Ilya listening very closely. He hadn’t seen the man this focused the entire trip. “The eyewall will make landfall just south of us really soon and then the storm will get weaker and weaker. And we’re safe here,” She looked directly at Shane for that last part.

Was his anxiety that obvious?

His head was still pounding from the rum, so he gratefully took the coffee that Jonathan offered him. He needed a moment to reassess this situation, to stop letting everyone see the anxiety bleeding out of him. It wasn’t very Pro-Hockey-Player-Captain of him, not at all.

He could see Ilya, fingers moving in the way Shane recognized as the pre-cigarette twitch.

He could smell a jasmine-scented candle that was lit a couple feet away from him.

He could feel the soft material of Ilya’s Boston Bears hoodie bunched around his neck.

He could hear the murmuring of Jonathan, Christine, and Ilya still talking about the storm.

He could taste the room temperature bottle of water he was sipping from.

Shane repeated the process in his head two more times in his head before he deemed it safe enough to shift his focus back out and readjust this position in the hallway. It was a method he’d picked up from watching Jackie Pike and one of her girls, a mental practice he’d never used until now.

No longer on the verge of tears, or something. It would have to do for now.

Beside him, Ilya murmured something to Christine, sounding faintly like a question, but Shane laid his head down on the pillow he’d grabbed from his room and curled up on his side to try and sleep. Any more talk of hurricane and he’d freak out for real.

His head was even with Ilya’s hip as he sat on the hallway floor. He thought that maybe, if he arranged the blanket just right… pulled it up so that he was concealed up to his eyes… the comforter bunched up right next to his head…there.

He used the cover of hotel comforter to stretch one of his hands out to pinch the fabric of Ilya’s shorts, grabbing on for dear life. It was a totally sappy and needy move, and he felt so weak and wanting, but he wanted some point of contact to tether him to the ground.

He made eye contact with Rozanov, who was looking down at him, and the other man gave him a wink. It was poorly concealed affection, Shane thought. Or he hoped it was.

There was a lot about Ilya Rozanov that Shane was suspecting he’d missed over the years. That maybe the facial cues he’d thought he was imagining could be actually true, if Shane was correctly understanding the undertones of words Ilya had confessed yesterday.

And, he guessed, a lot about himself he’d missed over the years.

How many times had he blamed his attraction to Ilya on convenience and comfort? The familiarity of the two of them? That they were equals in a way no one else could compare to?

How had he missed that he had lacked any real interest in women since he laid eyes on Ilya in that hotel gym after the draft?

Or even the other two men he’d hooked up with? They’d barely held a candle.

Shane realized, then, that he had feelings for Ilya Rozanov. Big feelings. Huge, I can’t name it or I’ll freak out, feelings.

It was sad, as he laid there, on that hotel hallway, the storm whirling around them. They might die, but there he was thinking about a boy who he’d spent so long trying to keep at a distance.

The only comfort in this situation was the 75% certainty he had that Ilya returned those feelings, too. His fingers twitched where they were still clenched around Ilya’s shorts and wished they were alone.

He stewed over in his head the events of the weekend. That despite the threat of a horrible natural disaster (which, he definitely still cared about), it had been really nice to exist in the same sphere as Ilya Rozanov and get a little bit of the attention that the other man was so good at giving. And watch him interact with other people, off ice.

Ilya in public, away from their hotel rooms and apartments, was a sight to behold. He captured attention like a king holding court, turning the blaze onto the little people in the kingdom and shining them with his attention. Ilya had taken all of the CCM team, the hotel staff, and other guests under his thrall and dragged them into the Ilya Rozanov Fan Club in a way that Shane was never able to do with strangers.

Shane loved to watch it and secretly loved it even more when Ilya subtly brought him into the fold. He was so happy he got the chance to experience for the first, maybe last, time.

He wished that there weren’t so many obstacles to them existing in that sphere in their normal lives. That there was a world in which Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander could go out in public without being flashed by cameras, speculated about on hockey podcasts and sports news networks about the rivalry, the rivalry, the rivalry.

He wished they could even have just a conversation in public without it being a big thing.

It left a pit in his chest, knowing how hard it would be to ever achieve something as benign as a public friendship with Ilya.

He didn’t know how long he’d been musing for, but people were settling down around him. The worst of the storm seemed to have arrived. It was truly upon them now.

The howling of the wind was now more like the roar of a jet engine, Shane noted with a shudder.

They’d been surrounded by it slowly building for hours so he hadn’t even noticed the change, but between the jet engine sounds and high-pitched whistling, he wondered for a moment if the roof of this hotel, only one floor above them, would rip clean off.

He was scared. Actually, truly, terrified, his heart jumping in his throat with every violent crash and whine of the wind whirling outside. There was no more chatter, he wondered if anyone else was imagining the roof coming apart above them. Maybe someone else was sat in this knowledge that they were at the complete mercy of the weather outside along with him.

The relentless drumming of rain and freight train drone lulled him into an unstable trance. Not quite sleep, no, he was still conscious and aware, but his senses were turned inward. Something like a turtle curled into its shell. His shoulders were squeezed up to his ears in a brilliant imitation.

He heard each crash and roar outside and thought that maybe that would be the moment their shelter would be ripped apart and exposed to the elements.

He lay there for what felt like hours, but could have been minutes or seconds, before he clocked a shifting besides him, and felt a warm body scooch closer. It was dark, so he couldn’t see, but that also meant that no one else could.  

Not that he should be worried about that, right now. They might die. Their supposed rivalry was the absolute least of his worries.

Ilya shoved their heads together in the darkness, breaths mingling together. Ilya’s was shaking, just a little.

Shane mouthed a helpless, “Hi,” against the other mans’ lips, Ilya’s mouth moving back in indistinguishable words, maybe Russian. He searched for a hand in the dark, finding it clenched around Ilya’s crucifix at his neck.

So, they were both terrified, then. Two strong, high-powered hockey players, reduced to this, laying helpless on the floor of a hotel, at the complete mercy of a freak storm whirling through their lives.

It was a little disconcerting to witness, the unflappable Ilya Rozanov, shaking and scared next to him, maybe even praying in fear. Their foreheads were together, eyelashes tangled, grasping each other like a lifeline, and Shane was doing his best to mold himself into Ilya’s skin. They weren’t kissing, just breathing together as if they were one person.

A mouth was still moving against his, wordless in prayer, chanting something in a language he didn’t understand. He hadn’t thought Ilya was this religious, but he was grateful that someone was seeking the attention of whatever higher power could help them.

If Shane believed in God, or knew at all what to say, he’d be praying too.

September 14, 2015 – 1:15 PM

They were released from their hallway prison ten hours later; the freight train jet engine roars of Category 4 Hurricane Jane having passed long ago.

Shane spent at least four of those hours playing cards with Jonathan, Max, and Christine, Ilya bouncing between backseat-driving over shoulder and sleeping beside him. If he hadn’t recognized Ilya using humor to deflect the uneasy feelings, he would have been annoyed. And he liked all of Ilya’s attention, even the annoying kind.

They’d fallen into a weird, steady, partnership in the hallway, both men very in tune with the other. They’d moved around in the hallway, everyone restless, but Shane and Ilya had orbited each other the entire time. Jonathan had even commented about it, a “Nothing like a traumatic event to bring the famous rivalry to an end, eh? They’ll never believe when I say you guys teamed up for bridge like old ladies at the yacht club.”

Both him and Ilya had laughed at that, Shane a little wild and untethered. In a different world, it would be the perfect cover, he thought. A way to bridge the gap created by the media.

They were released to the hotel “headquarters”, the second-floor conference room. Everyone was gathered there, various survival equipment like emergency kids, bottled water, and other unrecognizable stuff scattered around. There was even a small spread on the table for their lunch. More sandwiches, Shane noted. He was so tired of sandwiches.

He took a glance out of the windows, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the natural light, as they gathered, and immediately wished he hadn’t looked. Ilya caught his attention fixed outside and moved closer, coming up next to him, a steady presence.

“Holy shit,” Shane said blankly. There was no other descriptor he could have used.

“Holy shit,” Ilya repeated.

The beach bar was gone in the distance, ocean waves lapping only a couple meters from the elevated pool deck. There was no sign of the hammocks that had been wrapped around the palm trees or any of the market lights strung up between them. One of the powerlines was down and tangled in the pathway and trees. Shane was glad to have been moved from his bungalow because there was a ton of damage to the roof of his.

The sun was deceptively beautiful, and the palm trees (the ones that still had fronds) were unfairly green, but Shane couldn’t ignore the debris littering the hotel yard, ruining the potential for a sunny and perfect Florida afternoon.

Their gaze was limited to only the hotel property, so he couldn’t see what the rest of the area looked like, but it seemed like they had gotten very, very lucky. Certainly lucky with storm surge, someone had mentioned earlier that the other coast of Florida usually got 10+ feet of flooding during storms like these.

The hotel manager confirmed it a moment later when he gave his briefing and update on the situation to the guests gathered in the conference room, citing the minimal damage to the structure of the main hotel building and solid stores of food and potable water.

“The National Guard is on its way with the Florida Power and Light trucks to restore some of the internet and get the airport up and running,” there were some cheers to that. “And the water pumps will be turned back on soon, but we’ll be under a boil notice for at least a couple days. We should expect a few more days here before access to the airport and highway is restored.”

The manager paused, before reiterating, “We’ve all got to thank God for our luck, this could have been so much worse for us. No telling what the rest of town looks like, but we’re in really good shape, all things considered. We’ll be opening up the property to the neighborhood, we’re likely one of the more better-off places to shelter in for the next couple of days.”

More cheers, applause now. Everyone was in high spirits, the wear from the previous day falling off around the whole group. There were handshakes and high fives passed around, claps on the backs, grateful hugs to loved ones.

Shane and Ilya just stood at behind the group, leaning against the wall, Shane’s hand tangled with Ilya’s. He didn’t want to let go. The other man squeezed his hand a couple times but dropped it as Jonathan came over holding a satellite phone.

“Rozanov, we’ve got your agent on. Hollander, your mom is holding on the other line.”

Ilya took it and settled into a crouch on the floor. He was speaking in Russian, Shane noted, and his voice was so much more animated like this. There was no drone of sentences pieced together in careful English grammar, instead, there was an unpredictable rise and fall of his tone, emotion bleeding out into every word. Shane couldn’t even pick individual words out, nor could he tell the emotion Ilya was expressing, because Russian was so guttural and harsh.  

He closed his eyes against the sound, lulled by the cadence of Ilya’s voice. He wondered how the conversation was going. Was he as freaked out with his agent as he had been with Shane? Were they frantically deciding on a strategy and statement to release to the press? Shane didn’t know how widespread the knowledge was that they were in Florida, but both of them would need to present a reason for missing the first week of preseason.

Ilya finished up the conversation and wordlessly passed the phone to Shane, who pressed the button to get his mom on the line.

“Mom?” Shane asked.

“Shane, honey, oh my god.” His mom exclaimed into the phone, frantically. Shane had to push down the closing of his throat deep, deep, down. He could not cry in this conference room.

“Hey, mom. How are you?”

“How am I? Shane, how are you? I’ve been worried sick! Wait, your dad is here.” Shane heard a rustle of the phone as it was passed between hands. “Hey, son. Glad you’re okay.”

Yuna Hollander jumped back in with a “Where are you? Who are you with? When are you flying back to Montreal?”

Shane had to interrupt her rapid-fire questions. “I’m at the hotel still, we got the evacuation notice too late. I’m with Ilya,” He chanced a glance to the side at the man in question, who gave him a small smile, “…Rozanov. No telling when we’re getting out of here. Airport is still closed. The roads might be gone, I don’t know.”

“You’re with Rozanov?” His mom questioned, incredulous. “I hope he’s not being an asshole about this. He’s such a dick.”

“No, he’s uhm… He’s good. We’re good here.” How did he say, I think I’m in love and Ilya Rozanov is the only reason I am any semblance of okay right now? How did he say, I never want to leave his side again? His parents definitely wouldn’t understand that.

His mom accepted that without an argument, but Shane could tell that she wasn’t convinced. Shane put up with her questions for a little longer before letting her go. There were people getting up to go explore outside, and he wanted some fresh air.

They were given reminders about staying away from puddles and any standing water for powerlines, not to go into any standing structures besides the main hotel building, and to not wander too far from the property.

Ilya followed Shane outside, just as stoic as he’d been for the last couple hours, save the call with his agent. Two planets still orbiting around each other.

The destruction outside the hotel property was terrible. It seemed like every other building had been flattened in the storm. He wondered if the people had evacuated in time.

An idea started to form in his head about he could help this community. His contract renewal with Rolex was coming up, he could definitely put a lot of that money towards disaster relief.

They continued down the road, quietly pointing stuff out to each other, Ilya a comforting presence beside him. They stepped carefully over washed-out road, concrete looking like a giant had picked up the road and shook it. It was unrecognizable from what Shane remembered from the drive to the hotel days prior.

There was a fish sitting in a puddle, flopping every now and again. It must have washed up from the storm surge and gotten left behind when the waters receded.

Many people in this neighborhood hadn’t evacuated. Why would they have when there was supposed to be only minimal damage to this area?

Down the road was a group of people, sitting in the yard of a half-ruined house with a grill and a speaker, both fired up and working. They were offering burgers to passers-by, both Shane and Ilya declining politely. They hadn’t been recognized.

One of the houses had a piece of plywood nailed to the wall, maybe covering a front door, the words FUCK OFF, JANE spraypainted in big block letters. As he looked closer at the other buildings, there was more graffiti on the walls.

3 PEOPLE, 2 DOGS

WHEELCHAIR BOUND INSIDE

ISAIAH 26:3

KEEP FIGHTING, FLORIDA!!!

Further down they saw an old and weathered woman sitting on a porch stitching together the remains of an American flag. Shane had never seen destruction like this before in his life. Or so much obvious unity in the face of a disaster.

“I have never seen anything like this,” Ilya must have read his mind. He was squinting in the bright, afternoon sun.

“Me neither,” Shane responded. “How do they even come back from something like this?”

“I do not know. Is it terrible, that I feel eager to leave and put it all behind us?” Ilya looked at him imploringly.

“No,” he replied, mulling over the words. “Last night was really scary. I feel bad for them but I’m ready to leave too.”

“I wonder if there is something we can do to help.”

“Like a donation? I’d donate, for sure. My mom probably did it already, on my behalf.”

“Yes, or…”

“Or, what?” Shane asked. Ilya looked at him through the side of his eye.

“Maybe, we use us to bring notice to this place, get donations. Maybe CCM will help. Like…video?” That was a really good idea, and similar to what Shane had been mulling over for a little bit.

Shane nodded before opening his mouth to reply. The idea was taking shape in his head as he thought about it more. “I can definitely get my agent on board with that. We could film a little video here, CCM has all of their stuff. Raise awareness, or something.”

“With both of us is better, maybe.”

“Yeah,” They were both silent, still walking down the road. Ilya gestured and they turned back to the hotel.

“Like Jonathan said. We use rivalry to make video see more people, get attention from hockey fans. Maybe Florida teams want to help. Maybe they need money too.”  

That was a terrifying thought. The two of them on camera together for the entire hockey world to see? What would people even think? Probably a good way to raise money, but it was certainly scary to think of them being perceived together in anything that wasn’t a rivalry.

They made it back to the hotel, got Shane’s mom on the sat phone, and held a sort of war-room discussion with CCM about how they could best help. Apparently, there were already headlines about the aftermath, which areas were hit the hardest, so it seemed to him that people would want to help.

They decided on a short-form video format, nothing stuffy or over-planned, to post onto their official Instagram and Facebook accounts. CCM would post it as well, and they were still asking if the NHL account would be willing to repost. The two Florida hockey teams had declined to be involved, apparently, they were working on their own lines for donations.

By early evening, they sat down to shoot the video, Shane and Ilya on the front steps of a bungalow that was just outside of the water line. Shane knocked their knees together while the the CCM team was getting the camera ready to roll.

“You ready?” He asked to Ilya’s nod.

“Ready.”

They went through the script they’d practiced in the conference room, both of them serious. It would already make waves in the hockey world, with irreverent and fiery Ilya unusually subdued.

Shane started by mentioning how they were at a CCM event together, setting the tone that they were in Florida for business, before confirming that they were all safe and healthy, albeit stuck until the roads clear.

Ilya did his piece about the aftermath and how there were small businesses that needed help around the coastal areas, including the hotel they were staying at.

Shane finished with a throwaway line about their rivalry and looking past it to focus on helping people. He’d argued against it, wanted to keep the focus away from them, but Max had reminded them that it was a powerful sentiment, two historic rivals working together towards a common goal.

He’d also argued against the dramatic montage of video that followed their words, up close footage of destroyed homes and businesses. It seemed too raw and insensitive to put online, but they’d all decided that playing up the story and making it as shocking as possible would draw in views, and in return, more donations.

CCM Headquarters was able to help with the actual donation side, so Shane and Ilya merely pointed viewers in the direction of the CCM website and Go Fund Me pages that had been set up in support. They were technically just the figureheads of CCM, much like the reason they were in Florida for the first place, so it kept them from having to coordinate the bulk of the charity work.  

They would still have to wait until the power was restored to send the video out to be uploaded by Headquarters and their social media managers (who were just Ilya’s agent and Yuna Hollander).

There was no telling how it would be perceived by the public in terms of Shane and Ilya’s relationship, but there was no point guessing about it. Ilya already had to talk him off the edge earlier about the risks involved.

Ilya had said, People will not see this video and assume we are fucking, idiot. This is actually the dumbest thing you have ever said to me. Shane hadn’t protested, too offended to argue. Ilya was completely right, too, and Shane didn’t want to admit it.  

Most of the hotel guests had taken turns splashing themselves after dinner with buckets of the pool water, in attempt to get clean. Shane felt marginally cleaner, it was probably just the memory of sweat and grime clinging to him.

Water wasn’t back on yet, and they’d been given only vague estimations by the government as to when help would reach their corner of Florida. Shane had thought their area got really bad storm damage, but they were unfortunately pretty far down the list of places in need of urgent support.

Dinner was sandwiches, again, the kitchen breaking out canned tuna and using the last of the fresh vegetables. There were plenty of canned goods, they were reminded, but the bread and veggies would be gone after dinner. Silver lining: no more sandwiches.

Of course, beer was flowing without an end in sight, along with large tubs of cookie dough, so there was no reason for the majority of people to complain. Shane had abstained from both, but Ilya went to town on the cookie dough. Raw, he hadn’t even waited for the chef to put any on the skillet.

The two of them had been attached at the hip all day, moving everywhere together. And now, with people finished eating and taking their pool-showers, they were free to be alone for the first time since 3AM that morning.

Their room had sustained no damage in the storm, but they hadn’t been back until now. There were some plant remains on their balcony, nothing too crazy. They had the sliding glass doors open to let in fresh air and the tiny amount of breeze. There still weren’t any birds singing outside, which was disconcerting. They’d all fled the storm and hadn’t returned home.

“What a fucking nightmare,” Ilya said, flopping on the couch with a groan. Shane joined him, glad to sit in something comfortable.

“Yeah, you’re right about that.” He looked at Ilya from the opposite end of the couch, at the man who gave him a weird look.

“Why are you so far? Come, I don’t bite.” He gestured, and Shane scooched over. Ilya drew him into his arms, tucking Shane into his side. He rested his head against Ilya’s shoulder and nestled in further. He was happy at the invitation, happy to shake off the events of the day and feel safe.

Ilya dug his cheek into Shane’s head, and he nuzzled in further.

This was the most comfortable he’d been all day, for sure. They had nothing to do here except exist. No planning for their video, no distraction of cell phones, no destruction to look at outside. Just them. Him and Ilya.

Shane’s brain was quiet for the first time all day, with the pass of a hand through his hair lulling him into a relaxing state.

Until, of course, Rozanov opened his mouth and ruined it. “I saw you never got call from girlfriend, Hollander. Why not?” What the fuck? “I never see you with them in news either.”

Shane’s mouth opened and closed like a fish while he sat up and turned towards the infuriating man. Why did he feel like this was a personal attack against his character? “No girlfriend called you either, Rozanov. Fuck off.”

Shane went right back to his spot against Ilya’s chest, embarrassment be damned.

“I do not do girlfriends,” Ilya said flippantly, waving a hand. “Do you like them? Girls?” He pressed. Shane truly didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t want to lie to Ilya, having built a fairly steady friendship with him over the last couple of days, but felt so uncomfortable with this line of questioning. And vaguely defensive? What was the right answer to this fucking question?

“Yeah, sure…but” he paused, mulling over his words, so, so carefully. He hoped that he didn’t fail this test. “I am not very compatible with them.” 

“Ah,” came Ilya’s response, and nothing else. The hand that had paused petting his hair resumed its motion, and they fell into a comfortable silence, neither of them moving.

“I am glad it was you here, Shane.” Ilya said softly, a cheek pressing against the top of his head.

“What, you didn’t miss your buddy Cliff Marleau?” Shane ribbed. Ilya barked out a laugh.

“No. Or,” Ilya shuddered, “what if it had been Scott Hunter here instead?” Now it was Shane’s turn to laugh. He let his voice trail off as they settled back down.

“I’m glad it was you too, Ilya,” Shane whispered. His heart was pounding harder in his chest, now, dreaming and imagining all of their possible futures.

They stayed on that couch for hours, only moving towards the bed when the sun had long gone away and their room was fully dark. They instinctively went to Ilya’s bedroom, no question about whether Shane would follow. Of course he would.

Shane settled into the curve of Ilya’s side, folding in like he was meant to fit there. Like they had lain like that so many times before.

In the quiet of the bedroom, the pitch black let Shane feel comfortable enough to open up to Ilya even more. They were murmuring against each other’s bodies, both perfectly innocent, but bared naked for the other to see.

Shane shared his secret fears of the Montreal team, the pressure to perform because he couldn’t contribute to the team in any way besides hockey skills. How sometimes it felt impossible to hold himself to the standards that everyone placed on him, how it was even harder to hold up to his own standards.

Ilya, in turn, had opened up about the call he’d have with his brother the previous day. Shane heard about his beautiful mother who had died too young (reasons still unknown, and Shane didn’t ask), Andrei’s parasitic nature, the back and forth with his brother about his fathers’ sickness. And then, about the father himself, and Shane had never before now wanted to be so violent towards another human being.

It was the realest and rawest conversation they’d ever had. They both had tears drying on their cheeks towards the end, left unmentioned.

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s hair, the most touching thing Shane had ever felt. They’d both been quiet for a while after their pillow talking, drifting off into tiredness. There was this kernel of flame in his chest, kept alight by the man laying beside him, and he never wanted to leave.

“Sleep, malysh,” Ilya murmured. Shane let out a hum, pressed a kiss to a warm shoulder, and drifted off, off, off.  

September 20, 2015 – 4:30 AM

They were the first ones out of the hotel to be on the earliest flight out of Florida. The airport was finally open, and CCM had Shane on a plane booked from Palm Beach to Atlanta. Ilya was on the same flight, but they would split in Atlanta, Shane heading to Montreal for training and Ilya to Boston for the Bears’ first preseason game.

He was ready to get back to a sense of normalcy, but the drive away from the hotel left Shane with a pit in his chest at leaving Ilya. It was irrational to think like that, he knew it, but he hoped that things could be different between them.

Their intimacy over the past week had been the best and the worst thing that had happened to them, Shane thought. He’d been so, so careful to avoid talking about the future or what would happen between them. He was scared that he’d ruin whatever relationship they’d painstakingly built during this trip.

He had no idea how their relationship could change in any way, even after this trip. It would be more sleepless nights and wishing things could be different, even if there was less rushing out of hotel rooms.

Ilya was staring out of the window in the van that was carrying them to the airport and Shane wished more than anything that he could hold his hand. He’d grab that hand and Ilya would reassure him with a wink, or a smile, or even a snarky comment, and he’d know that everything would be fine.

But there were three other people in the car, and Ilya still staring at the moving trees, so none of that happened.

Their arrival to the airport brought back internet access via the cell boosters that had been set up. Shane’s phone was blowing up with updates and message from his friends and family.

ESPN Breaking News: Montreal’s Hollander and Boston’s Rozanov rumored to be in Florida during Hurricane Jane

The Sports Network: CCM representatives says “No Comment” when asked about Rozanov and Hollander

BBC News: Hundreds of thousands without power in the aftermath of Hurricane Jane, thousands displaced

Hockey Today: Both Hollander and Rozanov missing from their first preseason practices, according to sources on both teams, no IR designation

Top Shelf (New Episode): Analysis of Hollander, Rozanov, and Hurricane Jane. What does this mean for their rivalry?

Hayden Pike: dude, are you okay?

Hayden Pike: yuna told me you’re stuck with roz. tough luck hang in there (peace sign emoji) we love you! glad you’re safe

There were so many notifications, his team group chat had hundreds of unread messages, but he put that to the side for now. Instead, he headed to Instagram to repost the video that CCM had just uploaded.

His foot was shaking uncontrollably as he leaned against the steel airport chairs. They were in an airport lounge, trying to avoid people, but it didn’t make the situation any more comfortable. This would be it, their first public suggestion of Hollander/Rozanov in a context outside of a hockey rivalry.

“No turning back now,” he told Ilya.

“No turning back now,” the other man responded. “It will be okay, you will see.”

They pressed repost.

Chapter End Notes

epilogue next! some of this was based off of my own experiences with hurricanes, which was fun to write! thank you guys for following along with this story ilyyy comments and critiques are always appreciated!
- Queenie :)

Chapter 4: and then it cleans me out then i can go on

Chapter Notes

all roads lead to a little bit of canon compliance :)

i hope you enjoyed this little story of mine. i tried to do our boys justice and give them the ending that our dear rachel reid has always imagined for them. you'll recognize some of the phrases and conversations, taken from many scenes in the book, but i did my best to make them align with this storyline.

- Queenie :)

March 15, 2016 – 4:15 PM

The sun was dipping lower in the sky, shining bright into Ilya’s eyes. Maybe, he thought, this was the stupidest idea that any CCM designer had ever dreamt up. So stupid, even in comparison to the year they’d had him half-naked, shooting in the woods in the dead of winter.

This year in contrast was the beach in Texas with a high of 80 degrees. Full pads, gear, boots without blades, and a helmet on. Sand in uncomfortable, sticky places.

The only consolation was the other hockey player a few feet away, standing underneath an umbrella and sweating in his own branded kit, eyes carefully narrowed in the ‘angry kitten face’ that Ilya loved so much.

He could only imagine, based off of his own discomfort, what Shane “Easily Overstimulated” Hollander was feeling right now. Probably close to dropping his Canadian politeness, hopefully close to dropping his pants and joining Ilya in the shower later.

They’d done their rivalry shoot already, pretending to face off and spraying sand in the air with their sticks, but now they were finishing up the solo photos before the end of the day. It had gone a little bit better than their rookie shoot; neither of them susceptible to losing their cool around the other anymore, neither of them breaking off into laughter in sight of a camera.

Something was eating at Shane, though, Ilya could tell. Could tell from the last couple times they’d met up during the season. He didn’t know if it was in a good way or a bad way yet, Shane was infuriatingly good at pushing emotions away right at the moment Ilya was close to deciphering them.  

He’d also finally caught on to the way Shane held his feelings back–with his body. And Ilya was like a moth to a flame, he couldn’t resist the pull even if he knew the sudden confidence was a tactic.

What emotions was he trying to push away? Nothing to make him stop seeing Ilya, certainly. They had frequent video calls in between matches, instigated by both of them. No, Ilya couldn’t place whatever was going on inside of that beautiful head.

“Rozanov, a little bit more focus from you, please? More badass hockey player, less wistful-out-the-window.” The photographer exclaimed, angling in for another shot.

And damn if that wasn’t a call out. Ilya caught a snicker from Shane and shot the other man a glare. He’d stood so patient and good while Shane had his turn.

“That’s more like it! A couple more, then we’ve got it for you guys to head to the city.”

A couple more? How many “couple more’s” until they’d be done? Though photography was as different a profession to hockey as could be, Ilya found stark similarities to his coaches in the juniors who’d hand out “just one more’s” like candy.

It was bullshit, he hated this, and he wanted to go back to the hotel room with air conditioning and a shower and Shane Hollander naked in the spray, on his knees.

He gave one last face-off glower to the camera and imagined he was about to sweep the floor with the photographer instead of an opponent.

With the CCM situation finally wrapped up, Shane and Ilya were pushed in a town car and driven to their hotel in Houston. Ilya was certain that all of the All-Star squad would already be drunk at the bar when they arrived, ready to rib at them for their extracurricular money-making.

And newfound friendship, probably. Pretty much the whole NHL caught onto the lack of a real rivalry after the hurricane. Their relief-effort philanthropy after the hurricane had given them a public basis for a relationship, and it had been working out in their favor.

No one thought it was anything more than a friendship, with a serious lack of precedent for anything other than them being just friends, but they loved to tease at least him for it. Ilya had changed Shane’s name in his phone, so the Bears had seen his ‘friend’ shane hollander (glasses emoji) (twister emoji) in his phone a couple times already.

Cliff Marleau on the other hand, had seen right through the façade, clear as day. Remembering it gave Ilya goosebumps, even though it had been months ago. It was a horrifying series of events that made him vow to never bring it up to Shane, and at the same time cry in relief to Cliff’s reaction.

Almost the whole team had been at Ilya’s house, reviewing game tape and grilling on a night before a game against the Voyageurs. Shane hadn’t known when they’d get in, so Ilya had assumed, incorrectly, it would be late.

First, one of his rookies with a little rookie friend on Montreal waved his phone around and let the assembled Bears know that “We’re going to hit up a club, if anyone wants to join! Montreal just landed at their hotel.”

At about the same time, Ilya’s phone lit up with a text which drew his immediate focus. It was a ‘see you soon?’ that made him grin into his phone, interrupt the rookie, and announce that everyone needed to call cars and get out. He didn’t see Marleau’s face until the man punched him in the shoulder to get his attention.

The “What the hell, Roz” that rang from teammates around the room did nothing to distract Ilya from making eye contact with Marleau, sprawled on the couch next to him, and see the look of shock shock on his face, the glance down at the open chat with shane hollander (glasses emoji) (twister emoji) then a fast-growing understanding that had made Ilya’s heart drop.

Marleau had been looking at him with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth and he’d mouthed two words, Jane? Shane? Ilya went mute, unable to say or do anything. He’d never actually thought of what his teammates would have thought if they knew about Hollander. Had only ever thought about Russia. At that time, though, he saw the possibility of losing his best friend on the team. He saw himself losing hockey and his freedom, and everything.

Marley, I love him, and I can’t do anything about it, he’d wanted to scream, to make him forgive, to make him understand.

With Ilya useless and close as he’d ever been to a panic attack, Cliff had gone to work corralling rookies and vets in various states of leisure around Ilya’s living room. He called cars and gathered up food trash. He’d managed the entire situation for Ilya.

Marleau had been the last out of Ilya’s house, just like he was last off the ice (before Ilya) in their games, and all he’d done was press their heads together with a simple, Love you, brother. And Ilya realized everything would be okay, at least on that front.

By time he’d reassembled himself to something more befitting Ilya Rozanov, star center of the Boston Bears and less on the verge of fucking tears because he loved Cliff Marleau and Shane Hollander so much, Shane had knocked on his front door and had barely taken his shoes off before Ilya was on his knees for him.

And since then, Marleau hadn’t brought up Montreal Jane, hadn’t pushed him to hit the clubs and pick up women, had accepted his no’s and let him be. He’d even deflected other people asking about the infamous Jane. Ilya loved him all the more for it.

Which brought him now to the hotel bar where they were staying for All-Stars weekend, with Marleau certainly around, and the other stars just waiting to make fun of new friends Shane and Ilya.

Ilya gave a glance over his shoulder to check the room and drawled, “What is your room number?” He gave Shane a sideways look and winked.

Shane, the most adorable man and one that Ilya wasn’t feeling aggressively affectionate towards at all, just blushed and said “1631”. His freckles were standing on display, more pronounced with their recent sun exposure. Ilya loved them (him).  

Ilya was enjoying standing there about to order his first drink with Hollander. He was enjoying so much that he was about to buy Shane’s first drink, and then they would make their rounds. And then, once they’d socialized enough, he’d go and fuck Shane into the mattress hard enough to make their neighbors concerned.  

“Look at these old pals, fellas!” Huge hands clapped Ilya on the back and drew him into a headlock, distracting him from his wonderful daydream, and he whirled out of the grasp to find Marleau and Carter Vaughn. Both of them three sheets to the wind already.

There were more eyes on them, Ilya could feel Shane’s discomfort already, but Ilya was really happy to see Marleau and Vaughn already fraternizing, which would take the spotlight off of them a little bit.

“What the fuck is up, Marly?” Ilya laughed, his lips curling up at the edges. “And you guys are one to talk, old pals! We have started talking to assholes from New York, now, huh?”

Vaughn rolled his eyes with a muttered “They call you guys the Massholes, you know,” but with a smile, nonetheless. “Sup, Hollzy?”

Shane nodded, that polite fucking media smile plastered onto his face like it was painted on. Ilya couldn’t wait to peel that mask off later.  

“How was your trip down?” He asked, ever the polite boy. The perfect counter to Ilya.

He leaned on that, the difference between them, with a, “I was just about to get Hollander a beer, so please leave us alone and go find a table big enough for Vaughn’s massive ego.” The two laughed and trotted off.

“I’m not drinking tonight, Rozanov,” Shane muttered, but he had that twinkle in his eye that Ilya recognized as permission to tease him, just a little.

“What, you are worried I will score more points than you with one beer?” He paused, for dramatic effect, and to watch those eyes light up, “You think so bad of yourself that one beer will make you worse player?”

“No, dickhead.” Shane huffed. “Get me a Corona. With a lime.”

Ilya couldn’t tell why people thought Shane wasn’t funny.

The All-Stars weekend was one that Ilya always enjoyed because of the distraction from regular season that it provided him. Most of the players undoubtedly resented the lack of a free weekend. They had months of back-to-back games, long practices, and trainings, and their free weekend was one of a few times they could relax. Some of Ilya’s teammates were spending the time off with their families, on a beach vacation somewhere, partying like their lives depended on it, or just rotting at home without cameras pointed in their faces.

Ilya, in contrast, loved All-Stars because it reminded him of why he continued playing hockey. He’d known for a while that hockey was just a means to an emotion he wanted to feel. He loved the power and success of playing hockey, the adrenaline, and of course, he loved the money that afforded him a comfortable lifestyle.

The chase thrilled him, to be the best. To beat Shane Hollander. The chase of going back and forth to be Number 1 in the league.

He loved fucking around with these guys who had equally massive egos (for no right, because Ilya could out-skate and shoot all but one of them), and just playing hockey for fun. The stakes were gone, it was just bragging rights and a show.

He loved it for the fun of the game, and for an extra opportunity to see Shane loosen the buttoned-up reins enough to socialize.  

He caught back up to conversation around him with Vaughn’s very invasive question, “So what was that hurricane like, guys? The videos I saw seemed pretty gnarly.”

How did Ilya politely (without any indication to anything that would make him seem weak) say, I thought that we were going to die, please don’t make me remember the sounds of the wind in that hotel hallway. Instead, he said, “Yes, it was very loud storm. Very big. Did you donate?”

Beside him at the big wooden bar table, Shane rolled his eyes and gave a much more polished, media trained response. “Yeah, it was gnarly. There was a lot of damage to that area. Pretty scary, too, but we were as prepared as possible.”

Underneath the cover of the table, the ten guys that surrounded them, Ilya grasped Shane’s knee and squeezed. As scary as the storm had been, Ilya recognized it as the opening it had been to give him and Shane a moment to just sit and be together. They’d been ripped out of their comfort zone, away from the distractions, and had their defenses stripped away. Almost literally.

It was no wonder they were much closer now than they had been before.

“And an unlikely friendship out of it, too,” Hunter piped up from where he was seated beside Vaughn. “What was that like?”

“It was fine, we are fine. Is just on ice that Shane hates me.” Ilya masked his slight discomfort with the snark. He didn’t like speculation, wished that people would just let it go and accept the fact that they weren’t rookies anymore.

He was sure they’d see the heart eyes he definitely made at Shane, the I love you’s that were as consistent in his thoughts as his heartbeat.

“I don’t hate you and you know it, don’t be an asshole.” Shane rolled his eyes again. “I don’t hate him. It’s the media that drummed up that rivalry they love to promote, you know?”

“Like cats and dogs though, man,” Brophy said. Ilya didn’t know why some second-rate player was even at the All-Star weekend in the first place.

Ilya lost his chance to tell that little tidbit to Brophy’s face when his attention was caught by the buzzing at his leg.

Shane, sitting close enough at the crowded table that their thighs touched, caught the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He gave a questioning glance at the screen, then to Ilya, who just looked away. He didn’t want to see whatever expression was in Shane’s eyes at the Cyrillic name.

It was Andrei. Nothing good could come from him answering that call.

He wanted to hand the phone over to Shane. He’s would do a good job of it, Ilya thought. Maybe he’d politely but firmly cut off all ties with Andrei, maybe he’d surgically remove the rotting pieces of Russia from Ilya’s soul.

Maybe his father would be there, and Shane could curse the whole lot of them out.

Shane didn’t have it in him to do that unless Ilya explicitly told him too, though. And Ilya owed it to his mother to maintain the brotherly ties that would be one day all you have, Ilyushen’ka.

He avoided Shane’s gaze, wishing he was doing anything else, and quietly excused himself from the table. Conversation continued on without a pause, but he could feel Shane’s eyes tracking him across the bar as he left the room.  

“Andrei, I am at an event, what do you want.”

“Good morning, Ilyusha. I’m going great, thanks for asking,” his brother mocked. Ilya saw red. There was no fucking way Andrei was calling for anything other than money if he’d opened like that, and he had the nerve to critique Ilya’s politeness?

“I am deeply sorry, brother.” Ilya allowed himself one eye roll and one deep breath. He wanted a cigarette so badly. Or Shane to come and just be in front of him. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, now that you ask. Father was admitted to the hospital again. It’s not good.”

“What? When did this happen?” Ilya couldn’t tell where Andrei was. Somewhere loud, but he couldn’t tell if it was a hospital, a bar, or a busy street.

“We admitted him two days ago.”

What? “Why didn’t you tell me this two days ago?” Ilya spat, raising his voice. There was a nasty glare at him thrown from some woman in the lobby, but he couldn’t be bothered. He stayed there in the almost-empty room and just paced around.

“It didn’t seem bad two days ago. But the scans and tests came in today and his condition has worsened. The doctors are going to discharge him, but they’re telling us it will be soon.”

Ilya didn’t need to ask for clarification about what Andrei meant by ‘it’.

“How soon?”

“They say that he will not see Victory Day.” Ilya felt like his heart felt like it was beating in a frozen chest. Victory Day was so soon. Before the season ended. “The old man will be pissed about that down in hell,” Andrei continued.

Ilya couldn’t help but echo aloud a phrase that pretty much exemplified their father, We Can Repeat! It was something he’d heard parroted around basically his entire life. Andrei repeated it back, ironically, and Ilya almost laughed aloud.

Andrei and Ilya hadn’t shared a kind word since the passing of their mother, hadn’t had anything resembling a brotherhood or a normal family dynamic in well over 10 years. And yet here they were, bonding for the first time over their father’s unfortunate sense of nationalism.

“Thank you for telling me.” Maybe they would be okay, when this thing, this giant of a human, a father in the loosest sense of the word, wasn’t looming over them so large. Maybe that was the festering thing between them.

“You will come when he’s gone, yes? You need to make the arrangements we talked about.”

Or maybe they wouldn’t be okay. The ‘arrangements’ they discussed was just Ilya’s pocketbook, and how much he’d contribute to the funeral cost. Spoiler: he was expected to contribute everything.

He ran out of energy to maintain this conversation any further. He knew where it would lead, there was no sense in arguing. And he was so, so tired.

“I’ll be there.” He left it at that. “I need to go. I have other commitments here.” Ilya hung up without lingering to argue with Andrei’s complaint about a lack of commitment to the family.

It was the opposite, really. His supposed lack of duty couldn’t be farther from the truth. Ilya had no love for his father, or maybe he did, but it was nothing in comparison to his sense of duty. There’d been no part of him that had looked towards Russia since his mother died with anything but duty.

He pressed his phone to his forehead in suppressed emotion, trying to take deep breaths. Maybe if he held onto the phone tighter, screwed it into his head just a little harder, he’d be less tempted to throw it across the room.

Ilya needed to leave this lobby before one of his teammates or opponents came out to look for him. Or Shane. He couldn’t explain it to Shane, didn’t know if the other man wanted to hear about his shitty family any more than he already had.

His sense of freedom and enjoyment over All-Star weekend was virtually gone, now. He decided to be done with the socializing for tonight and crawl back to his room where he could just be in peace with whatever emotion was trying to escape.

He didn’t bother taking off his shoes before flopping down on the bed. Shane would have snapped at him for the shoes, had he been there.

Ilya wasn’t sure how long he’d been there staring at the ceiling unseeingly when his phone buzzed again in his pocket. Maybe it was Andrei again. He tended to get drunk and then call him back just to yell, Ilya recognized the pattern.

His theory was refuted 5 minutes later when his phone buzzed once more along with a sharp rap on the door that signaled it wasn’t Andrei. It would either be Shane or Marleau. Probably Shane, because Marleau tended to just yell his name from the hallway.

Ilya sighed but got up to let the man in anyways. He hoped he wouldn’t say or do anything rash like, say ‘can you hold me’ or ‘I love you’ or do something potentially worse, like cry. He’d been holding back the beginning of tears since the news about his father. He didn’t know what kind of tears they’d be, yet. Maybe frustrated ones, maybe regular sad ones.

He opened the door to Shane Hollander, those big, brown eyes carefully wide and eyebrows tipped together. Ilya was grateful the other man had reached out first. He would have laid on that bed forever if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“I texted,” Shane said, in lieu of a greeting. “Are you okay?”

He opened the door wider and wordlessly grunted his response. Shane followed, taking his shoes off at the door. What a good, Canadian boy.

“Was it your brother?” Shane asked, bluntly. He sat at the foot of the bed, Ilya leaning against the wall in front of him. Despite the direct question, Shane was twisting his hands in his lap and chewing at the inside of his mouth. Ilya was fidgeting himself, a hand tugging at the curls behind his ear.

Ilya tracked the movement of Shane’s mouth and wanted to stop it, with his own lips and teeth.

“Yes,” he said, crossing, and then uncrossing his legs. “My father is sick. Sicker than before.”

“Oh, Ilya, I’m sorry to hear that.” Shane murmured. It was at the same time so awkward and so endearing. Ilya shrugged and huffed out some form of non-committal, wordless ‘it’s okay.’

He stood there in silence for a beat longer, content to let the empty room fester a little bit. He didn’t want to make Shane uncomfortable on purpose, but he truly had no energy to put into words the emotions warring in his head, and also no energy to delay the conversation and distract Shane.

So, he’d wait. He went to sit on the bed next to Shane and planted his feet on the floor. He huffed, uncomfortable, and abandoned the upright position by laying down and letting his legs dangle off the bed.

He waited a beat longer, then toed his shoes off and tossed them in the vague direction of the door.

Shane gave him a sideways glance.

He could probably tell what Ilya was doing, but Shane just lay down next to him and tangled their hands together. Ilya remained quiet.

One of them would do it. One of them would lose this little battle, one of them would break the silence first. Ilya would wait, and make sure it wasn’t him. Or if it was him, he’d make sure it was meaningful, that he put the words together properly—

“I think I’m gay,” Shane blurted out.

Ilya could have laughed but didn’t. He let his lips just barely twitch, conscious of the eyes staring daggers into him. Not what he was expecting, at all. Was this what Shane had been sitting on for the last couple of months?

“I know you are,” He replied carefully. Ilya turned his head to blink at Shane, slowly. “I looked up what you meant, in Florida. The word. Compatible.”

“Ah, yeah. I’m not compatible with girls.”

Ilya let himself laugh a little, grateful for Shane’s humor to break him out of his mind a little bit. I love you, he wanted to say. “Thank you for telling me,” He put out, instead. “I could have told you this years ago, yes?”

“Fuck off, Ilya.” At least Shane was laughing now too, so Ilya felt it safe to keep going.

“My father will be dead before two months,” Ilya said without preamble. The laughter cut off. “I think I am happy about it. Does that make me bad son?”

The fingers trapped around his hand tightened and he got crushed, a little bit. He welcomed the bit of numbness, the sharp pain that kept him steady.

“No, Ilya.” Shane turned his head back to look at him, but Ilya pointedly turned his head away. He kept his gaze remaining fixed on the ceiling. It was a very old, very outdated off-white popcorn ceiling. How ugly. “He wasn’t a good father, so you’re not a bad son for being glad he won’t be in your life anymore.”

“My mother loved him very much. I think she would be upset with me if she knew this.”

“How did she die?”

This would be tough. He hadn’t talked about his mother in so many years. Possibly not since he was young. He had to get it right, had to make Shane understand this part of his life.

“By accident,” he said liltingly, mocking his fathers’ words for the second time that night. “She died by suicide.”

And then, because it was important for Shane to know this about him, it was the most defining moment in his life and the reason he could sometimes be at his worst— “I found her, you know. I was twelve. I laid on floor next to her bed until father found me many hours later.”

Shane gave a sharp inhale that signaled his shock, but he didn’t say anything. Ilya wouldn’t have known what to say in response, either.

It wasn’t a peaceful death, he wanted to tell Shane. He didn’t want to go into details, but he wanted Shane to understand that there was this cold thing inside him that repeated that night in his head.

That there was a reason he hated his father outside of his bigotry and homophobia and general iciness, and it was because he glossed right over his mother, mere days after the funeral, almost like she had never existed.

They hadn’t spoken about anything of substance since Florida, had been dancing around what they had become for months, and he wanted Shane to know every part of him. He opened his mouth to say more, the words flowing out of him.

“Sometimes I feel like I could be like her, you know?” He paused, letting the words sit in the empty room. “Sometimes I understand her a little bit too much. But most times, you are the one that keeps me tethered to this earth.”

He looked at Shane waiting for a response. There wasn’t one, and Ilya realized he had spoken in Russian. It had felt surprisingly good to let those words out, so he continued in his mother tongue. It was important that Shane knew this about him, but he would worry about translating later. He’d plan it out later, make sure that his words were correct.

“I hate my father for what he did to her after she died. He erased her from our lives. He was a monster. He made Andrei into a monster. He made me into a monster. He has become worse in his old age, in his sickness. He can be exceptionally cruel. He paused, sorting out the mess of feelings in his head. Shane lay silent beside him, still grasping his hand.

“But there are times when his head takes him to another place. Where we were a normal, if not cold, Russian family. He will mention her like it is nothing, like she is just out at the store, and those are the moments that make me feel guilty for being glad he will die.

“Those moments are my only reminders of her besides this necklace and when I found her dead, now. I have no photos. I do not remember what her voice sounds like. I fear that I will keep searching for her in Russia, only to come up disappointed. I am even more scared that I will remember that my father was just as horrible before she died, as well. This is why I am glad he will die, even if it makes me feel guilty for what she might think.”

Ilya needed a break, needed to keep down the lump in his throat, so he brought Shane’s hand up to his mouth to press it against his lips. It gave him the strength to keep talking, to keep babbling and pushing out these words now sorting themselves out in his head.

“But I have to be glad, or I would continue to go back to Russia every year and try and search for family in a place that doesn’t exist anymore. I know it isn’t there anymore. It’s here, Shane. My home, my family. You. It’s always been you. I love you so much, more than I ever thought I could, even in Florida. That storm brought us together, Hurricane Jane, but at some point, it would have always been you. The storm just showed me that I didn’t want to die without having you. That is why I am happy he will die. It brings me one step closer to having you.”

His heart was pounding in his chest, he could feel himself heaving at the effort of speaking those last words that, really, had just slipped out. Some of it was new to him, freshly conscious. He exhaled loud enough to accidentally use his vocal cords, startling Shane from where he lay beside him.

Shane rolled onto his side and placed a hand on Ilya’s jaw. He turned his cheek into it and let his eyes flutter shut.

“I wish I spoke Russian,” Shane said lowly. He continued to caress Ilya’s face. It was a complete role reversal. “I know it might be hard, maybe, but if you ever want to talk to me about all of that, you can. I want to understand you.”

Ilya steeled himself to shape his words into English. He wanted to tell Shane, he truly did. He just needed a moment to change languages, to talk about his father in a way that was coherent, maybe pass over the stuff about Shane, the I love you, because he wasn’t brave enough for that.

The words were coming together, sentences forming, structure sliding into place the way it does when you spend time listening to native speakers and reading native sentences. In his head he formed that mini speech once more, this time spending more time thinking about it and planning it out. Carefully choosing words and phrases that he hoped would land correctly.

And during all of this, Shane lay back down at his side, patient or maybe just content to sit in silence for the rest of the evening, thumb rubbing over the hand he’d once again taken in his grasp.

When Ilya finally opened his mouth, cleared his throat to speak the words he’d spent the last five minutes or so preparing, what came out wasn’t what he’d intended at all.

“I love you,” was what he said. Guttural, a little bit choked up. His eyes flew open in surprise, even though it shouldn’t have been surprising at all. They weren’t the words he’d just prepared. But they were the words he’d spent months, maybe years swallowing down.

Maybe I love you was the most familiar phrase he had, in English, with relation to Shane Hollander.

“Holy shit,” Shane said, breathless beside him. Ilya turned towards him, opening his mouth to take it back before—"I love you too.”

When those words registered, it felt like a hurricane was swirling around, blowing away everything bad that stood in his path towards Shane. Every obstacle, every setback, all nothing in the face of gale force winds.

A weight dropped from his shoulders; one he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, and he let his head twist further, let his body follow, and sink down into the space between Shane’s neck and shoulder. He shook with suppressed emotion while strong arms tightened against him.

Shane murmured again, “I love you. I love you so much, Ilya.”

Ilya just let it happen. That emotion, the ‘please hold me’ he’d thought when he realized Shane had come to check on him, the feelings that had been welling behind his eyes all evening, it all came up. He closed his eyes, burrowed further into Shane, and cried.

It must have been hours later when they finally were settling down. The sweat had cooled from their skin from when Ilya’s desperate relief had turned into desperation to have Shane.

They’d spent even more time talking and planning and dreaming about a future together. He didn’t want to know what time it was, definitely getting into the early morning hours, and they both had mid-morning commitments. He tried to push them towards sleep.

Shane, that beautiful brain always going, going, going, especially once he had a mission, was still continuing the conversation about them. Because now there was a ‘them’. It was the most glorious thing, the idea of them. Of Shane and Ilya. Not just competitors, finally more than friends who occasionally fucked.

“What if we started another charity?” He said, speaking into Ilya’s right pec. “One about something we both care about?”

Ilya hummed, too tired to put words together.

“I was thinking, maybe about mental health?” Shane asked, tentatively. “Maybe we focus it on kids, ones who suffer from anxiety and depression.” Ilya liked that idea and told Shane such.

Shane continued, clearly grateful for the approval. “I was thinking…maybe we name it the Irina Foundation?” It was a statement posed as a question; one Ilya was immensely grateful for.

Grateful to this man for understanding in such a little amount of time that it was still sensitive for Ilya to talk about his mother, much less in the context of a public-facing program. Still, though, he wanted to bite the bullet and face this for Shane.

“Thank you, lyubimyy. I think she would have loved you,” he said. “She loved kids. She was so good with them.” Shane gave a pleased hum and nuzzled against his chest.

It felt like Ilya’s heart would burst out of his chest. If he had an ounce more energy, he’d have a much different reaction to this idea. If he hadn’t cried everything out already, if he hadn’t fucked everything out already, he’d be going for another round.

“I love you,” Shane said, lifting up to kiss Ilya’s shoulder.

“I love you too,” he repeated, responding with a kiss in Shane’s hair. “Now sleep, malysh. We have many plans and lists and spreadsheets to make tomorrow.”

“And a hockey game for me to win,” Shane murmured, voice dropping, the man already falling asleep.

Ilya grinned into the dark room, feeling a little wild and elated despite the exhaustion, and let him have those last words. There was an idea of them, now. He’d finally said I love you. Ilya could lose the next five hockey games and not still lose this sense of happiness. He’d play his best tomorrow, of course he would, but if Shane ended up winning, he wouldn’t be upset at all.

Chapter End Notes

thanks for coming along on this little storm chase with me :) much love to jimmy buffet and rachel reid and of course you guys <3

comments and critiques are always appreciated !! go check out my one-shots about our boys, if you want :)

- Queenie